


Bad Boys

by MizJoely



Series: The Teen Years [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-03 03:07:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 32,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1065023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1955 Dublin. 17-year-old Molly Hooper makes the mistake of going on one too many dates with bad boy Jimmy Moriarty. Fortunately new student Sherlock Holmes is there to save her from herself - but who's going to save her from him? Teen!lock Sherlolly</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Constrained

**Author's Note:**

> This story was entirely inspired by Flavialikestodraw's fabulous picture of Sherlock and Molly “In Different Clothes” on tumblr (also “Electric Twist” on deviantart). Made me think 1950s Sherlock & Molly and this story was born. :) Thanks to her for inspiring and encouraging me to write this!
> 
> Thanks to LoyaulteMeLie for betaing & superb britpicking! One day I'll prod her into writing a Sherlock story, just wait and see! Till then, I recommend her Star Trek: Enterprise fics featuring Malcolm Reed.

**Dublin, 1955**

She'd known it was a bad idea, but Jimmy Moriarty was one of the best looking blokes in school. The fact that he was also the kind her mother warned her away from only added to his attraction. If her father hadn't been ill and in hospital, dying from some lung ailment her mother refused to identify, leaving Molly home to watch over her four younger siblings, she might never have given Jimmy a second look, knowing how dangerous his reputation made him out to be.

But her father was dying, her mother was spending more and more time at the hospital, and seventeen-year-old Molly's younger sister and brothers were fast asleep in their beds while she roamed the flat until the feeling that she'd go mad if she stayed indoors a moment longer drove her outside for some fresh air.

Jimmy had been passing by, in that posh red convertible his da had supposedly bought for him before his army unit had been shipped overseas to some unknown location for some equally unknown amount of time. Jimmy had offered her a ride and she'd accepted, feeling reckless and desperate and just needing to not _think_ for a while. They'd ended up kissing and doing some heavy petting while parked in an out-of-the-way alley, and he'd dropped her home when she breathlessly asked him to, guilty over leaving the kiddies alone for so long.

She'd been certain he'd go back to ignoring her when they returned to school the following Monday, but he'd surprised and, yes, flattered her when he asked her if she wanted to go the cinema with him sometime. She'd agreed, knowing it was wrong, that her parents would never approve, then once again snuck out of the flat after her brothers and sister were safely asleep, this time to see the new James Dean movie (appropriately enough entitled 'Rebel Without A Cause' and completely fabulous). Molly still felt guilty about leaving her siblings alone while her mam kept vigil in the hospital every night, but since she wasn't allowed to visit her da (“He needs his rest to build his strength up, not any of you lot stirrin' him up” had been her mam's blunt dismissal when she asked), there was a great deal of anger and resentment overriding the guilt, and so she accepted a third date when Jimmy asked her out again.

That turned out to be the worst mistake she could have made. Because when he'd made it clear that he expected Molly to put out for him, she finally found her sanity and did the single most courageous thing she'd ever done in her life: she told him ‘No’.

Which was how she found herself walking the darkened streets of a bad part of Dublin in the middle of the night, huddled into her cardigan while silent tears rolled down her cheeks. She would have to sew up the torn dress the cardigan covered before her mam saw it and wondered what had happened. Once neatly mended – and if there was one thing Molly Hooper could do, it was a neat mending job – she'd think up some innocent reason for it to have been torn in the first place.

At the moment she wanted nothing more than to curl up in a ball and sob away her misery, but Jimmy had deliberately kicked her out of his car in this neighbourhood knowing that something horrible might happen to her – if, she thought darkly, he hadn't actually planned for something to happen if she didn't let him have his way. Oh, he'd shown his true colours tonight, no two ways about it. If she made it home safely – please God, let her make it home safely – she vowed she'd never do something so foolish and reckless again.

The sound of footsteps and low laughter coming from behind her sent a shiver down her spine, but when she glanced over her shoulder, she couldn't see anyone actually following her. Telling herself it was surely just her imagination, she nonetheless hurried her steps, just wanting to get home and forget this whole, awful night had ever happened.

The sound of someone whistling as if calling a dog caught her attention, and she speeded up even further as a growing fear set her heart to pounding in her chest. _God, please keep me safe_ , she half-prayed, half-demanded as she pulled her cardigan tighter and wished she'd thought to bring her handbag with her. At least she could have used it to hit someone if they tried to grab her...

The sound of an engine brought her out of her panicky thoughts; she looked down the street and saw a single headlight heading in her direction. A motorbike, not a car; not Jimmy having changed his mind or decided she'd been punished enough and rescuing her in the expectation that she'd show her gratitude by doing what he'd asked her to do earlier.

She shuddered and broke into a half-hearted run, knowing there was nothing she could do if the motorbike rider was part of the gang tailing her, one of Jimmy's friends – Seb Moran drove a motorbike whenever he deigned to show up at school – or just some stranger out for a joy ride.

The answer, as it turned out, was none of the above. Molly gaped at the familiar face as the motorbike pulled up next to her. “Hop on,” Sherlock Holmes said in clipped tones, glancing over her shoulder with a frown. “They're ready to stop playing with you and get down to business.”

He was new to her school, and the rumours about him were many but the facts were few: Jimmy had announced that he'd been thrown out of so many posh London schools that his parents had finally sent him here in despair, and that had the ring of truth to it. Besides, Jimmy rarely made declarations of that sort unless he was certain of his facts. 

He and Sherlock had that much in common: they were both brilliant, both couldn't care less what others thought of them, and both loathed school. Molly, on the other hand, loved it and was determined to make her way out of the Dublin slums and have a real future for herself someday. In medicine, perhaps, so that no one could ever keep her in the dark about the nature of an illness again. Something. Some way to get out of the hell her life was rapidly becoming, with her dying father and emotionally distant mother and four squabbling siblings she was half raising on her own these days...

Which brought her back to her current dilemma: get on the motorbike (which looked an awful lot like Seb Moran's motorbike, had Sherlock nicked it from him somehow?) where Sherlock was impatiently waiting, or take her chances? After all, the little she knew about the English boy wasn't very favourable; he'd been caught smoking pot more than once, he was surly and rude, got into fights, smoked cigarettes like a chimney and had gone toe to toe with Jimmy Moriarty on more than one occasion for no apparent reason other than to show how little he cared for the other boy's reputation.

The sound of someone calling her name and making kissing noises from the darkness behind her decided her; hiking her skirt up she clambered onto the motorbike behind Sherlock, wrapped her arms around his waist and whispered “Thank you” as he gunned the engine and took off down the street.

oOo

The feel of Molly Hooper's arms around his waist was much more enjoyable than Sherlock had anticipated, as was the sensation of her cheek against his back as they sped off into the night. The gang that had been ambling after her wasn't really interested in catching her or they'd have done so long before; he knew Jimmy Moriarty had put them up to it, no doubt in retribution for Molly not letting him under her skirts on their date earlier this evening. Sherlock might not care much about people one way or another, but the rip in the bodice of Molly's dress made him want to find the other boy and pound him into the ground. Bastard had obviously known she wasn't the type to go all the way with a boy after just a few dates and set this whole thing up just to scare the shit out of her.

However, that didn't mean things wouldn't have escalated once they'd finally caught up to her, which was why he'd decided to intervene. Besides, the poor girl was terrified out of her mind and his mother was always lecturing him on what it meant to be a gentleman and he really had nothing better to do tonight...

Well, that last bit might have been only an excuse. He'd noticed Molly Hooper, singled her out as one of the few bright spots in this benighted place of exile. She wasn't on the same level as he and Jimmy when it came to brains, but she was head and shoulders above the other students, boys and girls alike. In fact, she was possibly the brightest female he'd ever encountered in his admittedly limited experience. And pretty, too, with those big brown eyes and dark auburn hair... None of which mattered, he assured himself as he took a bend a bit sharper than necessary.

It wasn't, he told himself, because he wanted to feel Molly's arms tighten around him. Or smirk at her squeal of fright – although he did do just that, catching a glimpse of wide brown eyes above a rather adorable nose and an open mouth in the mis-set rear view mirror before returning his attention to the road ahead of them.

They pulled up in front of the block of flats that held Molly's family home, such as it was. He'd memorised the addresses of students he was interested in during his first week at the new school, when he was bored and already in the headmistress's office for the second time. She'd had to leave to deal with something else and he'd leafed through her filing cabinets when that 'something else' had turned out to be one of Jimmy Moriarty's thugs, Sebastian Moran, nearly burning down the chemistry lab (not deliberately, for once, simply because he'd not bothered to listen to the instructor on the proper way to light a Bunsen burner).

Moran’s lab partner, as it turned out, had been Molly Hooper, who'd accompanied Moran to the headmistress's office (fortunately after Sherlock had already finished going through the files), fretting over the burns on his hands and blaming herself, which was patently ridiculous. But that seemed to be Molly's preferred way of dealing with stress: take the blame entirely onto her own shoulders no matter how innocent she actually was. Still, it had kept Moran (whom Sherlock called 'Moron' from then on, as often as possible both to his face and behind his back, which had led to the first of several brawls between the two boys) from being suspended, which was what had brought her to Jimmy Moriarty's attention in the first place.

Sherlock felt a scowl twist his lips at the thought of the other boy putting his filthy hands all over Molly. She was a tiny thing, delicate, almost. In that way – and only in that way – she reminded him of his mother. Molly, however, hadn't yet had time to develop the spine of steel Mummy Holmes hid beneath her soft, exquisitely mannered exterior.

He wondered if he would end up disappointing Molly the way he always seemed to disappoint Mummy, but brushed such thoughts aside as irrelevant and pointless.

Besides, since when did Sherlock Holmes care enough about a girl to speculate about a future with her beyond whatever was happening at the moment?

He watched with deliberate coldness as she awkwardly removed herself from the motorbike, refusing to miss the warmth of her slender form pressed up against his – but unable to entirely ignore the way she bent to readjust her skirts once she'd dismounted. All the ridiculous thoughts that had been wandering through his mind since he'd rescued her were clamouring for attention, whispering to him to say something nice to her, something that would make her like him and not just be grateful to him for helping her get out of a mess of her own making.

So of course he had to say something completely heartless, just to prove to himself that he didn't actually care. “You're lucky I happened to be about tonight, Molly. Maybe next time some 'bad boy' like Jimmy Moriarty asks you out on a date you won't be stupid enough to say yes.”

She'd opened her mouth to say something – to thank him, most likely – but shut it with a snap, her brown, brown eyes narrowing into angry slits as her hands landed on her hips. Sure enough, when she did speak, she snapped out: “I was goin' to thank you for helpin’ me, Sherlock, but obviously you did it just so you could say ‘I told you so', so never you mind!”

Her brogue thickened when she was angry, he noted absently, with the part of his mind that was always analysing things and filing them away for future use. Or to be discarded once he'd sorted through the memories he'd gathered during the day. And her cheeks flushed a rather becoming shade of pink as well. With her hair all windblown and coming loose from its usual neat braid, a scowl on her lips and eyes flashing with anger, she looked like a fishwife – and utterly adorable.

He didn't plan it, had certainly never intended it when he began the night following her and Moriarty on their date, but suddenly he found himself reaching for her, yanking her close and covering her mouth with his own.

oOo

Molly gasped as Sherlock's arms snaked out and pulled her against his body, their chests mashed together as his lips landed on hers. She reached up to push him away but somehow ended up with her fingers in his dark, wind-tangled curls, her eyes tightly shut and her mouth opening obediently beneath his when he slid his tongue across her lower lip in a manner her parents definitely would _not_ approve of.

God, he was a much better kisser than Trevor or Martin or even Jimmy, who had been a much better kisser than either of her former boyfriends. Kissing Jimmy had been a bit like being attacked by a ravenous wolf, whereas kissing Sherlock was more like...well. Her descriptive powers failed her as her mind melted into a gooey mess. Thank goodness her body seemed to know what to do; her tongue met his shyly at first but with increasing boldness as the kiss intensified. Her fingers were rubbing against his scalp and her body was pressing even closer to his and her eyes had snapped shut as she revelled in the storm of sensation....

...And she jerked away from him as Mrs. McGillicuddy's strident tones rang through the night. “Molly Kathleen Hooper! Get away from that hooligan right now or your Ma will be hearin' from me in the mornin'!”

She craned her head upwards, face burning as she looked up to where her neighbour was leaning out of the bedroom window of her third-floor flat, glaring down at the two teenagers. “I'm, I'm sorry!” she called up. “It won't happen again, I promise!”

She turned back to Sherlock, mortified not only by being caught but by her own wanton behaviour; hadn't she just slapped Jimmy Moriarty down for trying to kiss her like that, Frenching, wasn't it called? Something only the fast girls at school did... 

Sherlock, on his part, was laughing silently, head bent and hands on the motorbike’s tank. She swatted at him and hissed: “Stop laughin', ya great eejit! That woman can make my life a livin' hell!”

He took a few seconds longer to get control of himself, then looked at her and said the last thing she'd ever have expected to hear from him – words she would hug to her heart for the rest of the night and for many nights after: “Molly Hooper, this will most _definitely_ be happening again.” Then he winked at her, gunned the engine and took off with a cocky wave to Mrs. McGillicuddy.

Molly had to endure a shrill lecture from the older woman, promise not to sneak out again and thank – thank! – the shrew for 'looking out' for her in her parents' absence.

Then she escaped into her own flat, closed the door, and grinned like daft fool until she finally fell asleep.


	2. Confrontation

That had been Friday night. Molly was so up in the air about Sherlock's kisses and his words and the way he'd swooped to her rescue that she'd completely forgotten how the evening had turned so wrong in the first place.

Until, of course, she ran smack into Jimmy Moriarty first thing Monday morning. She was always early, but he never was – unless he had a reason to be. “Oh, um, hi,” she said weakly, giving the hall a quick scan and biting her lip when she realized the two of them were completely alone at the moment.

“Hey, Molly, so I heard you ran into a bit of trouble after I left ya Friday night,” he said, leaning his shoulder against her locker and thereby effectively keeping her from opening it. His eyes, always so dark and intense, were flat and unfriendly in spite of the smile on his lips.

Molly found herself taking a step backwards and glancing nervously over her shoulder. Still no help to be found, if he was in a mood to cause trouble for her. “Um, yeah, but I'm all right,” she said, knowing she sounded as nervous as she looked. Then she remembered how badly he'd treated her, squared her shoulders and looked directly into his eyes. “No thanks to you, Jimmy Moriarty.”

His eyes widened at her sudden show of bravado, then narrowed as he swept his gaze over her from head to feet and back again with a scowl. She withstood his gaze without showing any outward signs of discomfort even though inside she was shaking like a leaf. This boy wasn't _misunderstood_ ; he wasn't _nicer than he seemed_ , the way some of the girls so wistfully tried to tell her; he was _dangerous_ , and she was crossing him instead of caving in to the unspoken threat lurking behind his eyes. “If you're here to ask me out again, I'm sorry, but the answer's goin' to have to be no,” she continued, managing somehow to keep her voice steady. “My da's not gettin' any better and I can't be runnin' around all night with boys when I should be watchin' my brothers and sister like I promised my mam. Sorry.” Then she offered up her sweetest smile and asked if he wouldn't mind stepping out of the way so she could get her chemistry text.

Heart pounding, she waited to see how he would react; would he do as she'd asked and move or start something right there in the hallway, where anyone could walk in on them?

An unexpected grin lit up his face, replacing the scowl that had darkened his normally pleasant features into something rather frightening. He backed up and gave an exaggerated bow before turning around and sauntering away without another word, as if she weren't worth his time. Good. Let him find some other girl to grope in the backseat of his fancy car (and there were plenty who would jump at the chance, sadly); she'd had her fill of him.

She grinned to herself as she opened her locker; she'd almost told herself she'd had her fill of bad boys, but that just wasn't true. The memory of Sherlock's lips on hers flitted through her mind, sending a delightful shiver over her body and driving away her worries about Jimmy Moriarty.

She felt a sudden presence behind her and half-turned, worries so recently dismissed now flooding back into her mind until she saw who it was.

Sherlock Holmes, standing not two feet away from her as if summoned by her thoughts. The bad boy she instinctively felt drawn to, in a way she never had with Jimmy, who'd been nothing more than a fleeting distraction in a life that was fast becoming unbearable.

Unlike Jimmy, Sherlock didn't grease back his hair or sport a black leather jacket that screamed 'hooligan' to the world. Today, for school, he was dressed pretty much as he had been when she'd last seen him: a plain black t-shirt over a pair of faded denim jeans and a pair of worn engineer's boots to finish of the ensemble. His gaze, like Jimmy's, swept over her from head to toe and back again, but when his piercing blue-green eyes met hers, she felt a happy kind of warmth filling her instead of the chill the other boy's inspection had brought. 

“You told him off,” Sherlock observed in a neutral voice, although there was a flicker of some undefined emotion in his eyes.

Her grin widened as she tossed her head, feeling her long braid brushing against her back as she did so. “Indeed I did! Nothin' he didn't deserve to hear.”

Sherlock frowned, and Molly felt her pride shrivel up a bit; she'd thought he'd approve of her standing up for herself, so why was he frowning?

“That was stupid. Brave,” he added as her smile faltered and died, “but stupid. If you'd just stammered out something insipid about not being good enough for him, he'd have let you be. Now, you've caught his interest. And I may not have known him very long, but I can tell that once something's caught Jimmy Moriarty’s interest, he won't let go of it until he gets bored – or destroys it.”

Molly found herself shivering in spite of her clear instructions to her body to do no such thing. “So what you're tellin' me is that I just gave the snake a reason to come after me even though there are tastier mice out there.”

Sherlock's lips curved in a reluctant grin, and he reached out and lightly touched her cheek. She'd turned so that her back was to her now-open locker, the door half-hiding the two of them from view and giving them the illusion of privacy. Which was actually irrelevant since they were as alone as she and Jimmy had been moments earlier, but she still felt more comfortable being so close to him with a bit of something between them and the rest of the world. 

When he ducked his head down and pressed a soft kiss to her lips, she allowed it, but only for a moment before pushing him away, a blush suffusing her cheeks. “I know you don't care if you get sent to the headmistress's office for public indecency, Sherlock Holmes, but I've a reputation to protect! You'll have to save your kisses for after school hours!” Then, remembering what had precipitated the kiss, she turned serious again. “Do, do you really think Jimmy will – do something? To me?”

It was something she'd fretted over as soon as he'd turned her out of his car on Friday night, which had been overshadowed by the events that had followed hard on the heels of that act of petulant cruelty. She met Sherlock's gaze hopefully, but wasn't reassured by what she read in his eyes. “Of course he will,” she whispered, ducking her head down.

“He'll try,” Sherlock said. “But I promise, Molly, I won't let him hurt you.” In spite of her silent protests, he pressed another kiss to her lips. “See you in chemistry,” he said before turning and heading down the corridor in the same direction Jimmy had gone moments earlier.

“Oh, Molly, what _have_ you been up to!” 

The gleeful voice behind her held no malice; it was her best friend, Mary Morstan, who'd clearly witnessed that last kiss, if not the entire encounter with Sherlock. Molly's blush, which had started to fade, once again turned her cheeks as red as a fire engine, and she couldn't meet the blonde girl's eyes. “Nothing,” she mumbled, turning back to her locker and fumbling for her books. “It's just...nothing, Mary.”

“Molly's fallen for the English lad!” Mary sing-songed with a giggle. When Molly shushed her, she shushed her right back. “What, Molly Hooper, are you worried someone will hear?” She gave an exaggerated look up and down the empty hall. “Nope, no one's around, just me and you. So spill! When did you and the new lad get so pally?”

Molly shut her locker and grabbed Mary's hand, pulling her laughing mate along to the girl’s loo for a private word. After a quick peek under the doors to make sure none of the cubicles were occupied, she leaned against the nearest sink, hugging her books to her chest. “He gave me a ride home the other night.”

Mary waggled her eyebrows at her. “Sherlock Holmes doesn't have a car, Molly, so unless he 'gave you a ride' in a different way...” Her voice trailed off suggestively.

“No, nothing like that – honestly, Mary, you're just plain awful, you are!” Molly protested with a giggle, knowing that she was blushing again. “I was...I'd gone out,” she admitted, not willing to admit that she'd gotten herself into such a tricky situation with Jimmy Moriarty. “And some lads decided to have a bit of fun, try to scare me, and Sherlock rode up on his motorbike and offered me a ride home, that's all.”

Mary arched an eyebrow at her, an ability Molly had always envied, it looked so sophisticated. Of course, her best friend always looked sophisticated, with her smooth blonde bob and chic dresses. If Molly Hooper was the envying kind, Mary Morstan was exactly the type she'd envy. Fortunately for both of them she wasn't; Mary was just too good a pal for anyone to hate her because she was pretty and blonde and had a figure all the boys lusted after.

Well, too good a pal for Molly to feel that way, at least. What other girls thought of her was their own business. Business that neither she nor Mary cared to delve into – although Molly had given one or two of them the sharp edge of her tongue when she caught them making nasty remarks about the fact that Mary's father was half-English. It was a shame, it was, that the old hatreds lingered even now.

Mary leaned back against the wall under the window and crossed her arms and ankles, her expression somewhere between doubtful (she could probably tell Molly was leaving a great deal out of her story) and intrigued. “So he gave you a ride home...on a motorbike. Which I happen to know he doesn't own,” she added pointedly. “He legs it here or gets dropped off by that snotty older brother of his.”

Interesting, that; Molly would have to be sure to ask Sherlock about it the next time she saw him (the motorbike had looked an awful lot like Seb Moran's, but it had been dark and she was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt). Even more interesting was the fact that Mary apparently knew Sherlock's brother well enough to call him 'snotty' – how, exactly, had that come about?

Before she could ask, however, Mary continued her friendly (but relentless) interrogation. “So he gave you a ride home...and then?”

Molly's blush told the story, but she knew her friend wouldn't stop prodding her until she said the words. “He kissed me,” she confessed in a near whisper, then leaned forward after glancing around as if someone might have popped into the room without her noticing. “French style. And I – I let him.”

Completely overcome with embarrassment at saying such a thing out loud, she put one hand over her face, nearly dropping her books in the process.

Fortunately she was able to compose herself somewhat before the door did open to admit a few other girls she and Mary knew. The discussion turned to hair and make-up – none of them were allowed to wear so much as a dab of lipstick, of course, but that didn't stop any of them from owning a few tubes – but Molly knew Mary would be after her for more information as soon the two of them were alone again.

Just as she would. Because if Mary knew Sherlock's brother, then perhaps Molly could actually discover what were facts and what were just rumours about the lad she hadn't even realized she fancied until just a few days ago.


	3. Courtship

During the remainder of the week Molly saw very little of Jimmy, but quite a lot of Sherlock. Enough that several of her friends and acquaintances took to lingering near her locker at the end of the day and between classes, just to 'chat', but really to gawk at Molly's new boyfriend.

Not that she proclaimed him as such; after all, they hadn't even been on a proper date yet! But she'd let him kiss her – twice – and not just out of gratitude, either. So far he'd walked her home twice, joined her in the library at lunch once when she was studying for their upcoming chemistry exam, and the rest of the time he'd simply shown up wherever she happened to be – including waiting for her outside the girl's loo once when she, in his words, 'took an exceptionally long time washing her hands'.

On Thursday afternoon she finally worked up the nerve to ask him if there was any particular reason he was being so attentive. The look he gave her said plain as day that she was being stupid, but she refused to let the apology she felt forming on her lips escape into actual words, just looked at him and waited for an answer.

He refused to meet her eyes. They were walking down the street that led to hers; he hadn't walked her from school this time, just met up with her when she was half-way down the previous block. When she gave an exasperated huff and stopped, refusing to go another step until he answered her, he finally seemed to understand how important this was to her.

“I don't understand why you want me to tell you something you already know,” was his opening gambit as he took the four steps necessary to return him to her side. “Obviously Jimmy isn't just going to let things go.”

“So you're, what, protectin' me?” she asked. “If he was gonna try somethin', wouldn't he have already done it by now?” In fact, it seemed Jimmy had gone out of his way to avoid her all week, no doubt believing he was 'punishing' her by his absence.

“He's a planner,” Sherlock replied flatly, although his eyes flashed with sudden anger. Molly unconsciously took a step back, then forced herself to stay put, knowing the anger wasn’t directed at her. “I can't say what he has planned, but it's something. He's just waiting for the right time.”

She shivered in spite of the warmth of the day. She almost wished she hadn't said anything, but the old saying about ignorance being bliss was nothing but a load of shite. “So, yeah, then, protectin' me,” she murmured, unable to keep the dejection from her voice. What in the world had made her think he was actually interested in her as a girl? He was just keeping an eye on her, waiting for Jimmy to make his move, like it was all some kind of game. Which it probably was, the way those two seemed to delight in getting in one another's faces. She should have realised that she was just a pawn to the two of them.

When she felt Sherlock take her hand in his, she looked down at their intertwined fingers than back up to his face, startled and unsure what he was doing. “Sher –?” she started to ask, only to fall silent as his lips covered hers.

She didn't allow the kiss to linger, much as she wanted it to; after all, they were practically in the middle of the pavement, and such goings on were bound to be reported to her mother if anyone they knew saw her kissing the English lad in broad daylight.

When Molly pulled out of the kiss – oh, that was almost painful, to stop doing something she very much enjoyed! – Sherlock gave her a hurt expression and moved as if to steal another one from her. With a giggle she put her hand up so that his lips landed on her palm instead, but the giggle turned to an indrawn hiss of mixed pleasure and surprise as he pressed his lips against her skin. She felt his tongue dart out as if to taste her, but before she could pull her hand away his hand shot up to grasp her wrist, holding it in place. “Sherlock,” she breathed, feeling her face flush…and feeling a spreading warmth rising up from her private parts at the blatant sexuality of the movement of his mouth against her hand.

When he finally allowed her to pull away and met her gaze, there was a very smug grin on his lips. She gaped at him for a long moment, then realised her hand was still upraised. Snatching it back to her chest, she struggled for something to say while he just stood there, grinning at her. “You…that was…Sherlock Holmes!” she finally hissed, eyes darting around the empty street as if expecting her mother and all the old bats from her neighbourhood to come marching up to her carrying signs declaring her a tramp. “You know I’m not that kind…”

“Of girl, of course I do,” he finished for her, his grin not abating one whit. “But I’m that kind of boy, which you knew when you took up with me. But I’m not,” he added, the grin finally vanishing as he met her eyes with a burning intensity that did nothing for her fluttering heart or heated blush, “like Jimmy Moriarty. I won’t try to take anything from you you’re not willing to give me. And I promise not to push you…much.” With a return of the smug smirk, he took her hand in his and tugged her back to the pavement. “Come on, you don’t want to be late getting home. Your mother will be worried.”

Flustered and completely at a loss for words, Molly allowed him to walk her to the end of her block. He stole one quick kiss from her before releasing her hand and watching her the entire length of the block, until she reached the front step of her building. When she turned to give him one last look, however, he was gone.

Things continued in that manner – Sherlock teasing her whenever he thought he could get away with it, her protesting and knowing in her heart that she didn’t really mean it – for the next couple of weeks. He even coaxed her into going on a couple of dates the few nights Molly’s mother actually stayed home instead of going to the hospital – at least, he called them dates, although they were unlike any date Molly had ever been on before.

The first time he brought up to the top of the building where Mary’s father worked, breaking in with ease and producing a key to the roof he claimed to have ‘borrowed’ from his older brother – about whom he said absolutely nothing else, no matter how much she tried to coax the information from him. Mary had said his name was ‘Mycroft’ – what odd names that family gave their lads! – but ultimately had admitted that she'd only met him once, when he came to her house to meet with her father for some kind of business deal.

Once they reached the roof and stepped out onto the cement surface, all thoughts of Sherlock’s brother were driven by her mind by the breathtaking view to which she was treated. It was just gone dark, and she’d never seen the city where she’d lived her entire life from such a height. All the ugly, squalid bits of it were magically transformed into mysterious dark patches randomly lit as if by fairy lights rather than something as prosaic as electricity.

The second ‘date’ was even better, the best gift anyone had ever given her, ever.

He brought her to the hospital see her da.

She’d had no idea where they were going, as usual, on the back of, yes, Seb Moran’s stolen motorbike. Sherlock had flat-out refused to return it when she asked him to, and Seb had been unable to prove that the other boy had taken it, although they’d nearly come to blows the few times they met up with one another after it went missing. One of these days, Molly had admonished Sherlock, Seb was going to catch him riding it and the fight that would ensue would most likely land one of them in the hospital.

“Yes,” had been Sherlock’s arrogant response, “but it won’t be me.” And Molly had been forced to drop the subject.

She still fretted over the tension between the three boys, still worried that Jimmy had something awful in mind for her and Sherlock, but as time passed and nothing happened, she found herself hoping that she and Sherlock were both wrong. That Jimmy had simply decided they weren’t worth bothering with…

All thoughts of Jimmy and Seb vanished from her mind as their destination came into view; Molly gasped and tightened her grip around Sherlock’s waist. He risked turning his head a bit to let her see his self-satisfied grin, and she leaned her head against his back, fighting down grateful tears. Yes, her mam had forbidden this visit and she’d been obedient to her mother’s wishes, but now that they were here, she knew she wouldn’t be able to tell Sherlock ‘no’. Not when it was something she’d been aching for. For so very, very long.

Much later, she would come to recognise that as the moment when she fell deeply, hopelessly and irrevocably in love with him.


	4. Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for threatened sexual assault.

A week later Molly was walking home from school, hurrying because she'd lingered to have a good gossip with Mary instead of heading straight home as her mother had demanded she do – as her mother _always_ demanded of her, these days. Even days when she would be home from work less than an hour after school let out, Molly thought, with no small resentment – like today. It wasn’t as if Meg couldn’t keep an eye on Fergus and Niall while their downstairs neighbour watched Devlin the way she did every work day, bein’ well paid for that task!

At least her mam allowed Molly to go out some nights, the ones when she didn’t go to the hospital. Molly didn’t even have to be prodded to do her chores, so eager was she for the few nights she was allowed to have to herself, and never argued with her mam no matter how she nagged at her.

She still thought those nights off were for her daughter to visit with Mary rather than meeting Sherlock. Molly hated sneaking around like this, but her mother had decided that it wasn’t a good idea for her to date with her father being sick and all. Never mind that she’d had no issues with it for the past four years! Never mind that Molly had no intentions of giving in to Sherlock, no matter how persuasive he was proving to be.

It had become a bit of a game between them, him seeing how far he could push himself on her, and her sometimes giving in and sometimes pushing right back. A dangerous game, to be sure, but one she had no intention of losing. And one in which, she sensed, he would never push too far, especially once she realised he never even once tried to hint about the favour he’d done her by taking her to see her da in hospital, never tried to use that favour to his advantage.

Lost in her thoughts, she stepped off the kerb as her feet took her past the entrance to an alley, one she'd passed a thousand times before on her way to and from school, no different to any other – until today. She'd barely taken two steps when there was a blur of motion to her left; as she turned her head to look, she felt a strong hand close over her arm, another over her mouth before she could scream, and before she knew it her struggling form had been dragged deeper into the dark, narrow passageway.

The alley took a sharp turn before fetching up at a dead-end, and it wasn't until they were fully out of view of any passers-by that Molly was released. She'd seen who it was that had grabbed her, and vented her anger on Seb Moran as soon as he turned her loose. “Just what do ya think you’re doin', ya great bully! I’ve half a mind to...”

She fell abruptly silent as Jimmy Moriarty swaggered into view, hands in his jacket pockets, looking as neatly turned out as a greaser could manage, a cold smile pinned to his lips that came nowhere near his eyes. “Molly, dear, nice o' you to join us. Seb and I were just sayin' how we were minded to party a bit.”

“Oh? Is it a private party or can anyone join in?”

Molly had never been so relieved to see anyone in her life as she was at that moment, even more than when Sherlock had come to her rescue the first time. Seeing him leaning against the corner of the crumbling brick wall as if he’d simply materialised there, so casual and yet radiating a fierce menace, gave her a warm feeling in the pit of her stomach – and the nerve to stamp down on Seb’s instep, shove him into Jimmy and dash out of the dead end into which she'd been dragged.

As she passed Sherlock she heard him say, “Keep running, Molly, don’t stop till you get home.” She didn’t do anything but nod as she sped past him and around the corner till she reached the main street.

There, she stopped, in spite of Sherlock’s advice – no, in spite of his _orders_. She’d just left him alone with Seb and Jimmy, both of whom she knew carried switchblades, and both of whom were even more dangerous than she’d originally believed.

The realization of what had almost happened to her in that alley made her feel faint and weak, twisted her stomach until she felt the bile rising in her throat, but she forced it back down. Forced her hands to stop shaking and her legs to continue holding her upright as she looked uncertainly over her shoulder. How could she just leave Sherlock there, to fend for himself after he’d just rescued her from her own stupidity for the second time in a month? But what if she distracted him at the wrong moment, allowing either Jimmy or Seb to get the drop on him?

She looked up and down the road, but there was no one on it – not one child bouncing a ball or riding a bike, not one old lady walking a dog or family sitting on their front step. No one who could help or whom she could send for help. Should she try to find someone, or stay?

She hovered at the entrance to the alley in a state of terminal indecision, straining to hear anything that might tell her what to do – fight or flight, which was right? Inside she felt hysterical laughter bubbling up at the inadvertent mental rhyme her mind had come up with, but fought it down as grimly as she had the earlier surge of nausea.

The sound of an altercation came faintly to her ears, spurring her into action. Her eyes swept the alley for signs of anything she could use as a possible weapon...there! A broken brick, lying amidst some other debris against one wall. She scooped it up and headed back the way she'd just come, adrenaline fuelling the anger she was already feeling, the fear at what might have happened to her if Sherlock hadn't come along to help her when he did...and even more fear that he might be hurt or worse for doing so.

As Molly careered around the corner, she saw Sherlock dodging a feint by Jimmy, who held a wicked looking switchblade in his right hand, while Seb Moran circled around the two, eyes intent on Sherlock's every move, his own knife held at the ready. Even if they only meant to use the blades to intimidate, there was still the very real chance that Sherlock could be badly hurt.

Watching the three figures through eyes suddenly gone very cool and calculating, Molly hefted the brick in her right hand, watching, watching, watching...and then, when the moment was right...throwing.

The brick smashed into Seb's hand as he lunged for Sherlock, causing him to drop the knife and fairly howl with pain. Sherlock took advantage of Seb’s injury to slam his fist into the other boy’s jaw, knocking him into Jimmy, who yelped and jumped back, but not quickly enough to avoid his now unconscious crony as he collapsed on top of him.

Both boys tumbled to the ground, Jimmy cursing obscenely, while Sherlock stood over them, gesturing with one hand for Molly to stay back. She gladly obeyed, not wanting to get any closer to the two thugs than she had to, but ready to come to Sherlock's aid at the first sign of renewed trouble.

Jimmy finally rolled Seb's body off of his, glaring at his friend in disgust before raising eyes blazing with fury to glare first at Molly, then at Sherlock. “Only a feckin’ English bastard would need a lass to come to his rescue,” he spat out, his voice thick with rage.

“Only an Irish coward would need the help of his _friend_ to try and force himself on a girl,” Sherlock sneered in return, his hands balled up into fists as he waited for the other boy to get back to his feet.

Their gazes remained locked for what seemed to Molly like an agonizingly long time before Jimmy, quite unexpectedly, burst into laughter. Gone was the air of imminent violence that had hovered over the two combatants, and he waved one hand toward Sherlock in a dismissive gesture as he pulled himself to his knees and from there jumped lightly to his feet. “Go on, then, take yourself off,” he said, leaning down to dust off his knees in an exaggerated manner no doubt meant to convey a lack of concern at exposing his back to an enemy. “And take the very surprisin' Miss Hooper with you; you have my word there'll be no more jokes at her expense involvin' dark alleys.”

Molly's anger overrode her common sense at those words. “A joke, was it, Jimmy Moriarty? Scarin' me half to death, threatenin' me with...” She couldn't bring herself to say the word, a word she wasn't even supposed to know, good Catholic girl as she was. But a word the older women whispered amongst themselves when they thought themselves safe from being overheard. Such a disgraceful thing had happened to the greengrocer's daughter when she'd gone away to University, but to Molly's mind the most disgraceful part had been how the horrid old gossips had blamed the girl for what had happened to her. And if Seb and Jimmy had done what they'd implied they wanted to do to her, then she, too, would have been accused of leading them on and 'making' them hurt her.

“It was just a bit o' fun, Molly Hooper,” Jimmy replied with a shrug. “Got a little outta hand, yeah, but it's over now. Your _boyfriend_ ,” he said the word with another sneer, “rode in like a white knight on a bloody stallion and saved you from a fate worse than death. So go give him his hero's reward and I'll have a nice chat with Seb here about not lettin' his guard down in the middle of a fight in future.”

His smile was unpleasant, his eyes as flat and cold as they'd been earlier in the hall near her locker. Molly only just managed to keep herself from flinching away from him; instead, she tugged at Sherlock's wrist. “Come on, Sherlock, let's leave them to it. He said it's over and I believe him.”

She did, too, but not because she thought he'd decided that scaring her was enough revenge. No, she was terrified that he'd now shifted his anger onto Sherlock, and desperately wanted to separate the two of them before things erupted into violence again.

Sherlock finally moved, twisting his wrist a bit, not to force her to let him go but only so that her hand slipped into his, fitting like it had always been meant to end up there. She tugged again, fingers curling around his, and he gave a curt nod in Moriarty's direction. Conceding the draw, but not the battle – and definitely not the war. He released Molly's hand only so he could sling an arm around her shoulders, deliberately turning his back on the other boys and walking away.

oOo

Molly couldn’t stop trembling, no matter how hard she tried. There was no hiding it from Sherlock, either, since he kept his arm around her shoulders the entire walk home. He didn’t comment on it, nor did he release her once they arrived on her doorstep. In fact, he showed every sign of intending to walk up to her family’s third-floor flat with her. Neither of them had spoken a word, although Molly had fought back a sob or two during the first few minutes after exiting the alley, biting her lip and blinking her eyes rapidly to keep the tears at bay. It was just reaction, shock, not a weakness, but she still didn’t want to break down in front of Sherlock.

Now, however, she had to say something, even if the words came through a flood of tears. “Th-thank you,” she said quietly, looking up at him and despising herself for the nervous stutter, but comforted by the warmth of his body so close to hers. Oh, Mrs. McGillicuddy was bound to talk, but at least this time Molly wasn’t snogging on the street in the middle of the night.

His arm tightened a bit before he let her go with what appeared to be a great deal of reluctance. He studied her intently, no doubt noting her struggle not to cry as he read her expression. He reached up and very tenderly brushed a few loosened strands of hair out of her face, then leaned forward and kissed her. Oh, yes, Mrs. McGillicuddy was going to talk; Molly’s mother was going to get an earful about her fast daughter and the type of boys she allowed to escort her home, but for right now, she found she didn’t care. She wrapped her arms around his waist and felt his arms encircle her, and just allowed herself to enjoy the moment.

“Do you want me to walk you upstairs?” Sherlock asked when they finally broke apart. Molly managed a smile but shook her head, and he frowned. “Are you sure? You still seem a bit…wobbly.” He gestured to indicate the occasional tremors that still shook her form.

“Just reaction to all…that,” she replied. “It’ll pass. I’d love to ask you in and offer you a nice cup o’tea, but my mam’s not home and I’m afraid the neighbours will gossip if you come up with me.” She added, with a wry twist of the lips, “Not that they’re not goin’ to gossip anyway, seein’ as how I’ve made such a public spectacle of myself already.”

“Sod them,” he said rudely, his beautiful mouth twisted into a scowl. “Bunch of old busybodies, the lot of them. You’ve had a scare, and I just…” He hesitated, still scowling, before finishing in a rush: “I just want to make sure you’re OK. Really OK, and not just pretending.”

She nodded, a bit taken aback by the fiercely protective tone of his voice – but certainly not disliking it. “I am now. Truly. Thanks to you. Although I'm sure they were just tryin' to put a scare into me.”

The scowl returned and he lowered his head so they were eye to eye. “Don't ever fool yourself into believing that, Molly,” he said, enunciating every word with crisp precision. “Ever. Jimmy Moriarty may have backed down today, but that doesn't mean he won't try something again. And soon, if I'm reading him right.”

She shook her head, not so much disagreeing with him as wishing away the thought that this might not be the end of the matter as far as Jimmy Moriarty was concerned. “I'll try to keep out of his way,” she finally said. “And maybe you’d best do the same.”

Sherlock's scowl hadn't diminished one bit, and she knew with a sinking heart he was going to ignore her advice. “I'll be around to walk you to school in the morning,” he said, in a tone that brooked no arguments. Molly, however, wasn't of a mind to argue, simply nodded and dimpled a bit. His expression softened at her acquiescence, the subtle tension in his shoulders vanishing as if he'd expected her to put up a fight about it. He brushed another kiss across her lips, watching as she entered the building and not leaving, as she was to discover, until she'd reached her flat and peeked out the sitting room window to catch a last glimpse of him.

oOo

Sherlock hunched his shoulders as he made his way down the busy street, hands in his pockets, doing his best to ignore the people walking past him and all the noise assaulting his ears. He wasn't entirely sure how he'd wound up in this situation, caring about a girl so much that he was willing to risk almost anything for her; his brother would mock him if he ever found out, after all the times Sherlock had declared himself impervious to such a crippling emotion as _sentiment_.

Sentiment had brought his parents together in a marriage that had existed in name only for as long as he could remember, and sentiment had entangled Mycroft in one disastrous relationship after another – his latest girlfriend, Anthea, a cold, emotionally distant woman who made his brother miserable most of the time, was a prime example of why one should avoid romance at all costs.

So how in the hell had he ended up putting Molly Hooper's needs ahead of his own? He hadn't even got into her knickers yet, to put it crudely, and he'd been able to make girls do pretty much anything he wanted from the time puberty hit. Luckily Mycroft had been aware of his brother's early enthusiasm for – and attraction to – the fairer sex and had dinned into his head the necessity of using a rubber at all times. The idea of fathering a child was almost as frightening to Sherlock as falling in love, and now that he'd done the one, he certainly had no intention of doing the other.

That thought brought him to a literal stop, right in the middle of the pavement. He heard the grumbling of someone behind him, felt others brushing past him, but was too busy parsing his thoughts, analyzing them, confirming that he actually meant the words his mind had used.

Love. He'd actually thought the word 'love' in conjunction with himself and another person, a girl he'd known less than six months. What was worse, he could tell by the sudden churning in his stomach that he _actually meant it_.

He'd fallen in love with Molly Hooper.

And he had absolutely no idea what he was going to do about it.


	5. Clandestine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two different meetings, two different deals are struck. Either way, Jimmy Moriarty is confident he'll come out the winner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit goes to Nocturnias for giving me the idea for the next few chapters – or should I say, the blame? :) Cause things are about to get a bit...dark. Same warnings as before apply here, just kicked up a notch. As always, many thanks to my wonderful beta and Britpicker, LoyaulteMeLie for helping make all my Americanisms disappear! What a wonderful magician!

As expected, Mrs. McGillicuddy had given Margaret Hooper an earful when she got home from work that evening, and Molly in turn got an earful from her mother. “Molly Kathleen Hooper! I've not raised you up to be runnin' about with English hooligans! Don't I have enough ta worry about with your da in hospital and bills ta be paid?”

When Molly tried to defend herself – her grades were excellent, she was home every day to make sure the kiddies did their homework and chores, not to mention getting them fed, bathed and in bed while their mother was off at the hospital half the night – Mrs. Hooper simply ploughed right over her, leaving Molly angry and hurt and in tears by the time she finally wound down.

Molly fled to the bedroom she shared with her sister Meg, wishing she had the luxury of locking the door shut behind her. Luckily the twelve-year-old was down the street at her friend Katy’s house, so at least Molly had the satisfaction of slamming it shut behind her before throwing herself onto her bed and burying her head in her arms, soaking skin and coverlet with her tears.

Why did her mother have to be so hateful all the time now? She’d never been particularly warm even when Molly was younger, but ever since Devlin had been born three years earlier her mother had become even more distant. And now that her da had been stricken with cancer (he'd looked so sad when Molly had sneaked into his hospital room, but his eyes had lit up when he saw her, and he'd promised not to let her mother know she'd been by), her mother was even worse. Yes, of course Molly understood the stress her mother must be under, but it just wasn’t fair of her to dump it all on her daughter’s shoulders, without even thanking her now and again!

She’d worked herself into a proper strop when she heard her mother shouting at her to come out and get dinner ready. Then she heard the flat door slam and knew she'd left. Early. Without even waiting for Meg to come home. The younger girl would be upset at having missed her, which meant she’d spend the rest of the evening arguing with Molly and picking fights with Fergus and Niall and complaining about Devlin getting into her things…ugh, just what she didn’t need, not after the day she’d had. 

Not when all she could think about was whether Jimmy Moriarty really was going to try something else…and if he was going to do something to Sherlock as well, for coming to her defence.

She almost wished he hadn’t, that he’d stayed out of the other boy’s sights, but that was long since a lost cause; he’d already been in Jimmy’s face more than once since the beginning of the school year, and a real fight between the two of them – not just a bit of a scuffle in an alley – seemed inevitable.

The sound of Niall and Fergus screaming at one another, and Devlin crying in his cot, brought Molly reluctantly to her feet. Her mother had left, the boys were clearly in need of direct supervision, and dinner wasn’t going to make itself. She scrubbed at her face with a handkerchief, examining herself critically in the small mirror over the shared dresser. Good thing she wasn’t allowed to wear makeup, or she’d probably be covered in smeared mascara.

She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and headed into the fray. It was just her day to break up fights between squabbling males.

At least, she thought with a burst of morbid humour, her brothers didn't carry switchblades.

oOo

Sherlock waited patiently, leaning up against the motorbike he had, indeed, nicked from Seb 'Moron' the night he’d first come to Molly Hooper’s rescue. The sun hadn’t quite set, but it was close, and twilight seemed the appropriate time for this clandestine meeting.

He'd discarded the note Jimmy had slipped into his jacket pocket after memorising the time and location. He'd known it was there, of course, but hadn't looked at it until after he'd seen Molly safely home and was well away from her street – right after his unhappy epiphany regarding his feelings for her.

Molly Hooper. Until three weeks ago he'd barely spoken to the girl, yet here he was, defending her honour like some knight-errant from King Arthur's court – and, he realised with no small amount of self-disgust, thinking about her in ridiculously overwrought metaphors. If this was love, he really would be better off without it.

What was it about her that drew him to her? Yes, she was marginally – well, a bit more than ‘marginally’, to be fair – more intelligent than the rest of the knuckle-draggers in this benighted corner of the world to which he’d been exiled…and really, his parents needed to stop overreacting just because he had a tendency to play up a bit when he got bored!

He dismissed his parents from his thoughts with practised ease and focused on Molly, even though all he wanted to do was forget about her the way he'd forgotten every other girl he'd gotten overly friendly with...except, of course, it wasn't just friendship he felt for her.

But why? Yes, she was intelligent; yes, she was even ambitious, judging by the classes she’d managed to talk herself into in spite of the ridiculous prejudice against girls taking the more difficult science and maths classes. At least she wanted a better life for herself than the one she’d been born into, and had the brains and determination to try to make that dream come true.

She was pretty, too, in an unassuming sort of way. Not that that mattered in the least, he hastened to assure himself as a vision of her brown eyes flashing with mirth passed through his mind, but it certainly didn’t hurt. And her hair, not quite auburn although he would hardly classify it as anything as boring as simply ‘brown’ – he wondered what it would look like down, not in the braid she favoured. It hung nearly to the middle of her back, and would surely gain at least a few inches by being allowed to fall loose over her shoulders…

With an exclamation of disgust, he realised he’d actually fallen into daydreaming like some ordinary ‘eejit’, as Molly would surely put it. What the hell was wrong with him? Right now he needed to focus on the situation with Jimmy Moriarty, not waste time imagining how soft Molly’s hair would feel if he ran his fingers through it! Or remembering the way her mouth felt when he kissed her, how she always opened it so sweetly if they were completely alone, her tongue brushing his in that shy way it had, or how happy she’d looked when he sneaked her in to see her father…

The sound of a car coming up the lane brought his focus back with a vengeance. There was a chain-link fence between him and the dirt road that followed the perimeter of the large industrial complex in which he was waiting. Access was supposed to be restricted, there were guards on the two main gates, but it was nothing any idiot with a crowbar or wire cutters and a modicum of circumspection couldn’t get around. And he was certainly nobody’s idiot.

Although, to be fair, Molly would no doubt read him the Riot Act if she found out he was meeting with Jimmy Moriarty, who’d pulled up alongside the fence and hopped out of the cherry red convertible with a great deal of insouciance in his manner and a smug smile on his face. “Thought ya’d show up, Sherlock. Knew ya weren’t stupid.” He glanced up at the barbed-wire topping the fence and his grin deepened into something far more wolfish as he met the other boy’s eyes. “Smart, that, makin’ sure you’re on one side an’ I’m on the other.”

“Like you said, I’m not stupid,” Sherlock replied coldly. “But I am easily bored. So just tell me what it’ll take to get you to leave Molly Hooper alone and be done with it, will you?” He smirked and patted the handlebar of his stolen transportation. “I’m sure your little pet is still wondering where this beauty got to…and I’m sure he’d prefer to get it back in one piece.”

Jimmy’s grin slipped a little, turning into the beginnings of a scowl, but only briefly as he gave an elaborately indifferent shrug. “Oh, he knows damn well who nicked it, even if ya did change out the plates,” he replied. “Sooner or later he’ll find where you’re keepin’ it.”

Sherlock gave a yawn that was just as elaborate as Jimmy’s shrug – and just as genuine. “Yes, well, whatever. If returning this is the price, it’s one I can easily pay.”

Jimmy, who had been leaning with his arm against the fence and his forehead on his arm, straightened. “No, nothin’ so easy as that,” he said, his voice soft, dangerous; the voice of a predator warning off another predator. “If ya want your precious Molly to turn back into somebody not worth noticin’, you’ll have to work a lot harder than that.”

Good. The posturing was done; time for the negotiations. Sherlock mimicked Jimmy’s earlier stance, forearm on fence, forehead on arm, fingers clenched around a few links. “Fine,” he said, his voice just as soft, just as dangerous. “What will it take?”

The slow smile that spread across the other boy's face told the entire story even before the words passed through his lips.

The only way Jimmy Moriarty was going to leave Molly Hooper in peace was if Sherlock Holmes got himself permanently out of Dublin – not simply gone, but disgraced as well. Expelled from school, possibly even in trouble with the law. Dragged off to prison or drug rehab or by his posh family, it made no difference, just so long as Sherlock Holmes' name was forever mud in this part of the world.

Jimmy's part of the world. The only part he cared to own.

oOo

Jimmy watched as Sherlock rode off on his stolen motorbike, smirking until the other boy was completely out of sight. Then the grin dropped from his face and a scowl took up residence as he considered The Sherlock Problem.

The prat had come prancing onto Jimmy's turf like he owned the place, which was bad enough on its own, but what had started off an annoyance had quickly escalated into a real problem. A problem he'd been trying to work out the solution to until the separate issue of Molly feckin'-virgin-too-good-for-the-likes-of-him Hooper had unexpectedly proven to be the answer he'd been looking for. Nothing like having something useful drop into his lap – literally, he thought as the smirk returned. She’d certainly been eager enough to be in his arms that first night he’d driven through her neighbourhood and found her standing on her front step, all alone and looking mighty tasty in the moonlight.

When she’d asked him to drive her back home, he hadn’t pressed her, not that first night. Girls like her took time, he’d learned that lesson long ago, and he was willing to give it to her…until Sherlock Holmes had pissed him off for the first time, and he’d lost patience with the game he was playing with Molly and let her see what he was really after. Some of his mates had come by after she'd told him no and he’d dumped her out of his car, so he’d set them to following her, just to give her a bit of a scare. Which was when Sherlock Holmes had gone from annoyance to major pain in the arse by interfering in what was none of his fecking business.

Jimmy reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lighting one and taking a quick drag before hopping back into his car, gunning the motor and taking off down the dirt access road far faster than the posted speed limit would have allowed, had there been such a thing.

Both of his problems were about to be solved, in a very neat and tidy manner that appealed to him, just as soon as he made it to his next appointment.

He hadn't initiated this one, true, but he was confident that all he had to do was show up, and she'd come to him. No doubt offering what she'd denied him before: her sweet self, all in the name of protecting Sherlock bloody Holmes. Keeping the feckin' Englishman safe. He shook his head in mock sorrow. What was the world coming to, when a decent Irish lad lost his girl to the bloody English?

He took another drag, then flicked the cigarette over the side of the car, not caring if it landed in the dirt road or the dry grass and scrub brush alongside it. It would be appropriate if he did start a bit of a fire, since he was on his way to burn the heart out of Sherlock Holmes.

Who could’ve known the way to the other boy's heart was between Molly Hooper's legs?

oOo

Molly's heart was pounding in her chest as she slipped out of the flat and down the back stairs, and from there to the narrow alley that led to the street behind her own. The narrow strip of shared yard hemmed in on four sides by buildings was one of the reasons her family's flat was more expensive than some others in the same neighbourhood, and the only way she'd be able to slip past Mrs. McGillicuddy now that the other woman had appointed herself guardian of Molly's virtue. Thank God for the telly the other woman rarely shut off, day or night; it would keep her from hearing Molly leave, and since she'd only ever sneaked out via the front door up until now, hopefully she wouldn't think to be keeping an eye on the back of the building.

It helped that there was a bit of wooden fence supposedly blocking the alley's entrance; the older woman had no idea how many of the younger folk knew about the loose board and used it to slip in and out behind their parents' backs late at night. If she had, Molly thought as she closed the door behind her as silently as she could manage, then it would have long since been nailed tight shut.

She pushed aside the board and ducked through the narrow opening, thankful for once for her skinny form and short stature, then bit back a very unladylike swear word as she felt her braid catch on a loose nail as she squeezed through. She yanked herself free and allowed the board to fall back into place, catching it at the last second as she realised it might shut with enough of a bang to alert one of the neighbours that someone was out and about where and when they shouldn’t be.

She exclaimed a bit in pain, then sucked her index finger into her mouth after managing to scrape it on a different loose nail. It was bleeding copiously, and she was forced to remove her blue hair ribbon and wrap it around the injury after she’d slipped her shoes back on and hurried down the alley. 

Her heart was pounding furiously in her chest by the time she reached her destination, the seedy garage where Jimmy Moriarty’s cousin held clandestine meetings with his fellow IRA conspirators. Those meetings were an open secret in the community, as was the fact that Jimmy himself conducted some mysterious business there himself after hours, on nights when his cousin was away to the north ‘visiting relatives’.

Nights such as this one. There was no guarantee he’d be there, but Molly had a feeling he was expecting her. And why shouldn’t he be? He’d seen the way she’d come to Sherlock’s aid, and knew she was smart enough to understand that the other boy had made himself an irresistible target by showing up in that alley in the first place.

Much as she’d tried to tell herself nothing would come of it now that Jimmy and Seb had put such a scare into her, she'd known all along she was fooling herself.

That Jimmy Moriarty wasn’t going to give up until he’d gotten what he wanted from both her and Sherlock…unless maybe, just maybe, he’d be satisfied if she came to him voluntarily, without him having to do anything further. If she gave him the one thing she most wanted to save for Sherlock: herself.

oOo

Jimmy looked up at the sound of a soft knock on the back door. He and Seb had been engaged in a desultory game of pool at the table his cousin kept in the back room of the garage, killing time while waiting for this very moment.

Their eyes met, and Jimmy knew the predatory smile on his friend’s face was a mirror of his own. “Well, what do ya know, Seb,” he quipped as he straightened up from where he’d been about to take a shot and laid down the pool cue, “looks like your replacement ride is here.”

Seb sniggered and leaned back in his ancient wooden chair, tilting it back against the wall and taking a lingering drag of his cigarette as Jimmy walked to the back door. Leaning against the frame, shooting Seb another smirk, he called out: “Who’s there?”

“It’s me, Molly. Molly Hooper,” came the response. As if any other Molly would be coming here tonight to offer her sweet self to him in exchange for her fancy English boyfriend’s safety.

Right on schedule, too; she certainly scored points for punctuality. With another smirk, he unlocked and opened the door, beckoning her inside with a lazy wave of his hand. “Molly,” he said once she’d come fully into the room, stopping just shy of the pool table and eyeing Seb uncertainly. “What can I do for ya? Thought you’d be out with your fancy boy tonight,” he added flippantly. “Celebratin’ your victory, like.”

She flinched and ducked her head, a lovely flush colouring her cheeks, and Jimmy felt his cock harden in his trousers. Seb had set the front legs of his chair back on the floor and was adjusting himself and looking at Molly like she was the tastiest dish ever. No words were needed as the his friend rose to his feet, eyes locked on Molly’s sweet body as she twisted her hands together nervously, clearly wondering if she’d just made the biggest mistake of her life, coming here tonight.

Jimmy felt a twinge of admiration as she straightened her shoulders and dropped her hands to her sides, consciously loosening them, her chin lifted in an attitude of quiet defiance. Seb remained at her back, crowding her a bit, causing that air of defiance to morph back into the unease Jimmy much preferred to see on her face. He stopped directly in front of her, a slight smile on his lips as he waited for her to speak.

Molly licked her lips, very briefly, and Jimmy allowed his eyes to flicker toward her mouth before slowly bringing them back up to her eyes. “Jimmy, if I, if I…”

“If you what, darlin’?” he asked her mockingly. “Spit it out, girl, Seb and I don’t have all night.”

That was a lie, of course; he had nothing on but dealing with Miss Molly Hooper, and grinned just enough to let her know that, to see how she’d react.

She flushed a bit redder and her hands had curled into fists, but she finally managed to say what she'd come here to say. “If I let you…if I do what you w-wanted me to do, that night…would you promise to leave Sherlock alone? To not…do anythin’ to him…for helpin’ me out? Would you give your word?”

He was surprised that she believed his word to be good when clearly she thought nothing else about him was. Then again, he tried not to make promises he couldn’t keep, nor to lie outright about anything if he could help it.

Just as he hadn’t lied to Sherlock earlier, when he’d promised, very specifically, that Molly would no longer have reason to fear being dragged into any more alleys. Sherlock had understood the implicit threat only thinly disguised as something that sounded like an agreement to back off. In fact, he'd had a half-dozen other ways of getting back at her already planned out if Sherlock didn't do what he'd told him to do and get his skinny English arse out of Dublin for good, blackening his name in the process.

That deal, however, was off the table since Molly had seen fit to offer one he wanted even more. Yeah, there’d be a certain amount of satisfaction in knowing he’d driven Sherlock out of his territory, leaving Molly behind to grieve his absence, but this would be even sweeter. Seeing the look on the other boy’s face when he told him how sweet, virginal Molly Kathleen Brigit Hooper had given herself to Jimmy – and Seb, couldn’t forget the other injured party in all this – sacrificed herself to save Sherlock feckin’ Holmes…that was a victory he’d savour forever. Knowing that he’d taken what Sherlock wanted, the one thing no lass could ever ungive, and knowing as well how this would haunt the English boy for the rest of his life would be sweet vengeance, indeed.

It would be even sweeter if one of them knocked her up; then there’d always be a living, breathing reminder of their time together to keep Molly from ever being able to forget what happened or truly put it behind her.

Yeah, he reckoned this was gonna be the best deal he’d ever made. Leaving Sherlock strictly alone, after? Well worth it. “Yeah, Molls,” he finally said, as her fingers began to twitch and her body shake with nerves, “I think Seb and me, we’d like that. You’ve got a deal.”

Her eyes darted sideways as Seb leaned forward and planted a deliberately sloppy kiss on her shoulder, nipping at her through the thin fabric of her cardigan and dress – the one Jimmy had torn before, now neatly mended. She gave a soft yelp and tried to move away from the other boy, but Jimmy’s hands shot out to grab her by her waist and keep her right where she was. “I didn’t mean…not _both_ of you,” she tried to protest, but Jimmy hushed her with a brutal kiss, grinding his pelvis against hers to let her know how ready he was to consummate the deal they’d just made.

“Too bad,” he said, when he pulled back, grinning as he saw that Seb had crowded against her as well, his own hands on her shoulders and the length of his body pressed against her, the movement of his hips showing he was grinding his cock against her arse. “Seb and me, we don’t generally share, but for you, we’re willin’ to make an exception. It’s either both of us or else…well,” he said with a lazy grin, “Sherlock Holmes gets what he deserves. Your choice.”

He watched complacently as Molly closed her eyes and shuddered. Hard. Then she opened them and met his. He savoured the rising fear in them as she gave a tiny little nod of acquiescence, then gasped as he lowered his mouth to her neck and sucked a dark mark into it above the collar of her cardigan, high enough that she'd have to wear a scarf to cover it for the next couple of days. He released his hold on her hips while Seb’s hands slid down to take his place, and began undoing the buttons, shoving the cardigan roughly off her shoulders and down her arms, Seb obligingly moving back enough to let it drop to the floor. Then his mate busied himself with the zipper on the back of her dress and Molly gasped again, pure terror flooding her features as her eyes darted around the filthy cement room as if looking for a way out.

“Here?” she gasped, her voice panicked. “Oh, God, right _now_?”

“No time like the present,” Jimmy replied with a nasty laugh, then grabbed Molly’s dress right over the neatly mended tear and yanked it down, exposing her prim white brassiere and modest cleavage to his very, very appreciative view.

oOo

Stupid, stupid, he was the most stupid idiot to ever walk the planet! He should have known Molly wouldn’t be content to let things lie, to let him take care of the situation! God, he just hoped he wasn't too late...

He’d gone to her flat with the intention of tossing a few pieces of gravel at her bedroom window to wake her up, not caring if he woke up the younger sister she shared a bedroom with, since he was never going to be part of Molly’s life ever again. Knowing that he would be leaving Dublin – leaving _her_ – settled a dull ache in his heart, and he’d even considered not going to see her at all. That thought, however, made him physically nauseated, and so he’d forced himself to go, only to discover that Molly had gone out the very way he was about to go in; through the loose bit of wooden fencing at the end of the alley opposite the building where she and her family lived. 

He'd snapped on his pocket torch and examined the damp spot that had caught his attention – yes, blood, fresh, on an exposed nailhead that also held several strands of Molly’s distinctive hair caught around it. He'd sworn and backtracked, hurrying to the waiting motorbike, which he’d wheeled into the alley just far enough to keep it from being noticeable from the street, then started the engine and sped off to where he knew, with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, Molly had gone: the garage Jimmy's cousin Finn owned.

He just hoped he would get there in time to stop her from making the worst mistake of her life.


	6. Carnage

The scene that greeted Sherlock's eyes when he picked the lock to the back door of the Moriarty garage was one that would remain forever seared into his heart and mind: Molly Hooper, naked from the waist up, being pawed – and worse – by Jimmy Moriarty and Seb Moran.

None of the three figures appeared to have heard his entrance or to be aware of him at all. His mind racing, he tried to work out the best approach when Jimmy's next words drove all reason from his mind.

“Lie down on the pool table, ya feckin' cunt; I want yer blood stainin' it so I can think about puttin' my prick in ya every time I play.”

He'd heard the term 'seeing red' before, and dismissed it as an exaggeration to excuse uncontrolled violence. However, he could now verify that one did, indeed, see a red haze before completely and utterly losing control of oneself.

He was dimly aware of a low growling noise, but only realised he was the one making it when suddenly he locked eyes with Jimmy Moriarty. The other boy's expression went from smug to alarmed to outright fearful as he loosened his grasp on Molly – he'd been squeezing her breast with one hand whilst tugging on her braid with the other – and stepped back, eyes darting around as he no doubt searched for a weapon of some kind.

Then Molly cried out in pain as 'Moron' shoved her out of the way in his haste to face the unexpected threat...and Sherlock went berserk.

oOo

Molly scrambled out of the way as Sherlock launched himself at Jimmy and Seb, howling curses and spitting out threats in voice that hardly sounded human. Wide-eyed, she managed to pull her dress up, holding it in place as she backed up against the wall, trying to make herself the smallest possible target as the boy she loved transformed into a raging beast before her very eyes.

He was kneeling on the floor, pounding at Jimmy as if determined to smash the other boy's head in, but where had Seb got to? Molly looked around for him, then screeched in pain as he grabbed her unravelling braid and yanked her up against his body. She only fell silent when she felt the prick of a blade beneath her jaw. “Tell yer feckin' boyfriend to let Jimmy go or I swear to God I'll slit yer throat,” he hissed into her ear, hauling her closer to the two bodies on the floor, now rolling around in a tangle of arms and legs. “Tell him!' Seb ordered her, digging the point of the blade into her flesh hard enough to draw blood.

“Sherlock!” Molly cried out. “Please, stop! Let him go, you have to stop!” She knew she sounded as terrified as she was supposed to feel, but, just as in the alley, she'd gone curiously numb, as if everything that was happening in front of her was as remote as a scene at the moving pictures. She knew her body was trembling, but she also knew that, if she timed it just right, she'd be able to free herself from Seb's hold, just as soon as something distracted him…

...like that. Jimmy struggling up to his knees, landing a hard blow to Sherlock's jaw after managing to roll the other boy off of him, calling out for his friend to help him, for feck's sake. As Seb loosened his grip on Molly, she grabbed his arm and bit down hard on the fleshy part of his hand below his thumb, digging her teeth in as viciously as could and feeling an equally vicious pleasure when she heard him cry out. She watched with satisfaction as the knife fell to the floor, and was able to kick it out of anyone's reach as it came to rest underneath a rack of automotive tools. Then Seb slammed her against the wall, hard, and she cried out as she fell to the hard cement floor, watching through bleary eyes as he launched himself at Sherlock's supine form.

oOo

Sherlock became dimly aware of someone shouting his name, tugging at his wrists, and turned to warn whoever it was off. He only stopped himself from hurling a few choice swear words when he realised the face in front of his belonged to Molly Hooper. She was crying; was she hurt? His eyes flicked over her form, taking in the sight of the dark bruise on her throat, the few drops of blood below her chin, but there were no other obvious signs of injury. Why was she crying, then? Surely she wasn't upset about the way he was squeezing the life out of Jimmy Moriarty, as his fingers continued to tighten on the other boy's throat...

“Sherlock, please,” Molly said through her sobs, still clutching him by the wrists. “Please, you're killin' him, I can't have that on my conscience, please, let go of him, I'm beggin' ya...”

With a growl, he released his grip on Jimmy's neck. The other boy gasped and wheezed as Molly urged Sherlock up off the floor. His eyes darted around the room, taking in the smashed chairs and broken pool cue – had he done that? – before settling on Seb Moran's unconscious form. The ‘Moron’ was bleeding, his nose looked broken, but he was breathing, so he hadn't killed either of them.

He wished he felt relieved at that realisation, but all he felt was a surge of black rage trying to overtake him once again. Then Molly caught his gaze, her worried brown eyes drowning in tears, and he forced the rage back down. Without a word he turned her so her back was to him, then carefully zipped up her dress – it was torn again, but there was nothing he could do about that – and circled around so he was facing her.

“Did they hurt you?” he asked, his voice low and intense. His fingers brushed against the bruise on her neck; he knew it for what it was and felt the anger trying to rise again but pushed it back down. “Anywhere else – Molly, did they hurt you?”

She shook her head, managing a watery smile that he was unable to return. “No, I'm...let's just go, Sherlock, please. Before they wake up.”

He glanced around the room, his eyes settling on a bit of white fabric half-covered by Jimmy's leg. He yanked it out – yes, it was Molly’s ruined bra – and stuffed it in his jacket pocket, then removed the jacket and gently put over Molly's shoulders. “All right,” he agreed. “I'll take you home. Unless you need to go to the hospital...”

“Not nearly as badly as you do!” she exclaimed, her eyes clearly doing an inventory of his battle wounds now that she'd managed to stop crying. “Sherlock, you're bleeding...”

“I'll be fine,” he said shortly. “Come on, let me get you back home.”

She hesitated, appeared as if she wanted to say something further, but simply nodded and allowed him to lead her out of the room.

oOo

After making sure Molly was able to sneak back into her flat without getting caught by any of the nosy old bitches that lived in her building, Sherlock got back on the motorbike and headed for the outskirts of the city, gunning the engine recklessly as he sped along far faster than he should have within the city limits. The abused engine whined as he quickly ran through the gears, the spaces between the buildings growing wider, the traffic all but vanishing as he raced into the suburbs, and from there to the countryside that was his ultimate destination. He felt nothing but a cold sense of satisfaction as he heard the engine protest his brutal treatment; it looked like the Moron wasn’t going to get his motorbike back in one piece after all.

The fury he'd let go of earlier had come roaring back – and it wasn't just the motorbike’s ostensible owner and Moriarty he was pissed off at. Much as he hated himself for it, he was angry at Molly as well. What the fuck had she been thinking, going to see those two deviants, offering to let them...

His blood was boiling at the thought of what he'd barely been in time to prevent. The image of Molly, naked and spread out on the filthy green felt top of the pool table, with Jimmy Moriarty thrusting into her, wouldn't leave his mind. And the obvious fact that Seb Moran was going to have a go at her as well...he'd thought she was smarter than that, why wasn't she smarter than that? Didn't she realise that by offering herself to Jimmy, she was only giving him exactly what he wanted – and not just in the way she thought?

No, she'd fucked up his deal with Jimmy, and now he'd have to find some other way to keep that bastard from hurting her. If he thought it would do any good, he'd head right back to that seedy little garage and let Seb and Jimmy beat the shit out of him, but it was too late for anything as simple as that to resolve things now.

Even if Sherlock did as Jimmy had originally demanded, got out of Dublin forever – even if he got himself expelled, busted for selling drugs, ruined his reputation forever – it wouldn't be enough to keep Molly safe. Not now. 

He gritted his teeth and gunned the engine, wishing the wind in his face could blow away the knowledge of what he had to do next, the only thing he could do to keep Molly out of Jimmy and the Moron's clutches forever, something he hated to do and would no doubt spend the rest of his life regretting.

The image of Molly as he might have found her – nude, with Jimmy fucking her on top of the pool table – came unbidden to his mind once again, and a stream of truly foul curses streamed from his lips as he realised that there was no decision to be made, none at all.

He would have to go to his brother Mycroft for help.

oOo

Molly made it into the flat without being caught. She peeked in on her brothers – all asleep. Good. She put her head into the room she shared with her sister, Meg, who was also asleep. Doubly good. She headed for the bathroom, carefully eased the door shut before flicking on the light, and faced the mirror in order to assess the damage.

Tearstained face, swollen eyes, red nose, all of which would be fine by morning. Good enough. Her hair was a ragged mess, but a good brushing would take care of that. The slight nick beneath her chin from Seb’s knife, looking like nothing worse than a scratched bug bite, no worries there. Her body ached, but a careful examination considerably relieved her mind of the worry that there would be visible bruising on places that would show.

Speaking of which...she winced and twisted her head in order to get a good look at 'love bite' Jimmy had given her. Oh, it was huge and purple, and he'd made sure to suck it into her skin so high on her throat that she'd have to either wear a high-necked blouse or a scarf. Maybe if she wore her hair in two braids for the rest of the week, and a scarf over a high-necked blouse...

The sob startled her; she'd thought she was done with crying for tonight, now that the worst of it was over, but she was shaking and the tears were rolling down her cheeks and suddenly she was crouched on the floor next to the sink with her face in her hands and her teeth biting desperately at her lips, trying to stifle the sounds of her delayed reaction.

What had she done? What in the name of Jesus Christ had she _done_?

Sherlock hadn't said one word to her after they left the garage, but she could tell he was still furious – and not just with Jimmy and Seb. No, he was angry with her as well, for putting herself into that position. What had she been thinking? Did she really believe Jimmy would let things lie if she let him and Seb...

She felt her gorge rise, and barely turned herself in time to empty the contents of her stomach into the toilet. 

She'd had good intentions, she told herself as she flushed the toilet. But as she met her eyes in the mirror after bringing herself shakily to her feet and rinsing out her mouth, she remembered a saying she'd heard over and over again, about the road to hell being paved with good intentions.

And she'd just set herself and Sherlock Holmes firmly on the first steps down that road. No wonder he'd been so angry with her. The only thing he'd said after they left the garage was that she should have left well enough alone, that he'd already struck a deal with Jimmy. Then he'd clammed up, no matter how hard she begged him to tell her what the deal was, only growling out that it didn't matter, since he doubted Jimmy would be in a mood to honour it once he recovered.

She shivered, remembering the explosion of violence she'd witnessed. Seb and Jimmy had been no match for Sherlock's blind rage; if he hadn't reacted to her voice and hands on his wrists, she was terrified he would have killed one or both of the other two boys. And it would all be on her conscience. But how could she have known what would happen? She still had no idea how Sherlock had known she would be at the Moriarty garage, nor could she bring herself to care at this point in time. Not in the aftermath of her making what could have been the worst mistake of her life.

She should have known Jimmy wouldn't just keep it between her and him. She should have said no when he told her Seb was going to put his filthy hands all over her as well, tried to run...but there was no way they would have let her go. Even if she'd never made the offer, just turned and left the second she got there, Jimmy would never have allowed it, and she knew it as well as she knew her own name. What was it Sherlock had said? _Once something's caught Jimmy Moriarty’s interest, he won't let go of it until he gets bored – or destroys it._

She shivered. She and Sherlock had more than caught Jimmy's interest now. 

If there was any way out of this horrible situation, she couldn't think of it. She just hoped Sherlock would be able to put that clever brain of his to work once he calmed down enough to think again.

And she only hoped he'd be able to forgive her for acting so impulsively and making everything worse.


	7. Conditions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock reluctantly turns to Mycroft for help, and a deal is struck.

“You do understand, Sherlock, that there are...conditions...attached to my agreement to assist you in this unfortunate tangle.”

Bloody Mycroft, terminally incapable of easing up on the pomposity. Just like their father. “Of course there are,” Sherlock huffed as he threw himself into the overstuffed chair in front of the fireplace. “Just tell me and get it over with. Or take it as given that I agree to your terms, no matter what they are, as long as it keeps Molly Hooper from coming to harm from that bastard.”

He'd explained the situation to his brother as coldly and clinically as he could, although he couldn't keep his hands from balling into fists when he described the scene he'd burst in on at the Moriarty garage. Nor could he keep the rage from thickening his voice, or the way his eyes narrowed into furious slits as he relived the previous night's activities.

They were in Mycroft's posh office on the tenth floor of the office building where his brother currently worked – one of many in Dublin owned by the Holmes family – sitting in front of the unlit fireplace with two rapidly cooling cups of tea set on the low table between them. Mycroft's secretary had served it before vanishing back to her desk, while Sherlock absently wondered how long it would be before Mycroft decided to dump his current girlfriend in favour of said secretary. At times like this he wished he could turn his ever-buzzing mind off long enough to focus, especially since he was here for a far more important reason than deducing Mycroft’s boring love life.

He needed to concentrate on saving Molly Hooper, not only from Jimmy Moriarty and 'the moron' but also from herself. Because she'd shown herself to be almost suicidally determined to destroy her life – not only on her own behalf, but now on his as well. Infuriating, but he couldn’t help a sort of hopeless sense of admiration for her as well. No matter how dangerous, she’d proven herself determined not to just sit by and let things happen to her. Much as he hated to admit it, it only made him love her more.

“You have feelings for this girl – good Lord, Sherlock, don't tell me you fancy yourself in love!”

His brother's aghast tones broke into his thoughts, and he glared over at him. Mycroft then had the audacity to laugh at him. “Oh, dear brother, this is far worse than I thought!” he said mockingly. “I thought you were immune to love, that sentiment was a chemical defect – ”

“Shut up, Mycroft,” Sherlock hissed at him, eyes darting around the room as if seeking some method of escape. In fact, his hands landed on the arms of the chair, as he prepared to launch himself to his feet and stalk out of the office. But no, if he did, then he'd be back where he started. So he gritted his teeth and sank back down, but not without shooting his brother a withering glare. “It doesn't matter how I feel about Molly,” he ground out, not at all liking being on the receiving end of an uncomfortable – and uncomfortably accurate – deduction. Especially not from his older brother. “All that matters is that she's safe from Jimmy Moriarty. Can't you just trump up some charges against him and have him sent off to a juvenile detention facility or something?” His eyes lit up. “In England, preferably?” He'd hate that, the bloody nationalistic little prick.

“Sadly, Sherlock, although I do hold a rather powerful position in our father's company, I am not yet the British government,” Mycroft snarked back to him. “Besides, it would be morally dubious to trump up charges against a minor.”

“Right,” Sherlock sneered back at him. “Because God forbid you do something 'morally dubious', like cheating on your girlfriend with your secretary.”

That barb hit home; Mycroft stiffened, then narrowed his eyes at his younger brother. “Do you want my help or not?” he demanded after the long staring match between the two of them ended as it always did – in a stalemate. “And are you certain you're willing to meet my conditions without hearing them first?”

“You're going to insist that I stop mucking about and finish school, then commit to at least two years in Uni after I graduate,” Sherlock replied promptly, sounding – and appearing – utterly bored. “And no contact with Molly in the interim, because of course I'll have forgotten all about her by then, moved on and found someone more appropriate to have a relationship with. Close?”

Mycroft allowed a brief flash of annoyance to cross his features before returning his expression to one of careful neutrality. “Yes, of course those are the conditions,” he replied. “And you agree?”

Sherlock didn't mean to hesitate, but he did, thoughts of Molly Hooper inundating his mind. If he did as his brother required of him, then he wouldn't see her for more than two years. Oh, he'd find a way to stay in contact, to keep tabs on her, but at the first sign of trouble Mycroft would make his life a living hell.

However, he had a condition of his own, especially if he was going to give up the next two and a half years to his family's control. Something for Molly.

“Set up a scholarship so that Molly can go to the best medical school in England,” he said, the request coming out more like an order. “After everything she's gone through, she deserves the future she's mapped out for herself. Do that, get Jimmy Moriarty and Seb Moran away from her until she’s done with school here, and I agree to your conditions. All of them.”

“Done.”

Clearly Mycroft had been expecting that demand, else he wouldn't have replied so promptly and in the affirmative. After all, it wasn't his personal money he was committing to aid Molly; it was family funds, which meant that Mummy and Father must be in on it as well. Not unexpected, but he’d been hoping to put off involving them until later.

Without another word, Sherlock stood up and headed for the door to his brother’s office. “I’ll be ready to leave as soon as Moriarty and the moron are out of the picture,” he said as he reached the door, not bothering to wait for his brother’s response. Which would most likely be something boring and pompous anyway.

He did, however, pause at the secretary’s desk, watching as she clicked furiously away on the typewriter’s keys, finishing up some piece of correspondence or other. When she sensed his eyes upon her, her fingers slowed, then stopped moving entirely as she glanced over at him. Making sure to meet her eyes squarely, Sherlock leaned one elbow on the desk and said, “Take my advice, Miss,” his eyes flicked to her name plate and back to her face, “Donahue, and don't follow through on your plans to take my brother for every penny you can get out of him before running off with your real boyfriend, the one Mycroft doesn't yet know about – a mechanic, if I'm not mistaken,” he said, then added coldly, “In fact, if I were you, I'd break things off with him and give my notice by the end of the week. Just some friendly advice.”

She spluttered out some form of incoherent denial, but Sherlock merely waved her away and strolled out of the office.

Just because Mycroft had a blind spot the size of Buckingham Palace when it came to picking his sexual partners, that didn't mean Sherlock did. And just because the two brothers often butted heads, it didn't mean they didn't look out for one another. Not that Mycroft would thank him, of course, but really, he did need to remember that a pretty face didn't necessarily mean a pretty heart.

Not like Molly Hooper, for example. Her exterior was a perfect facade for what lay beneath the skin – and she was well on her way to developing that core of steel she'd need to survive.

Now all she needed to do was to work on her impulse control, to try to think things through before rushing into action...

Damn. His hands had curled into fists as he loped down the stairs, disdaining the use of the lift even though his brother's office was on the eighth floor, and he'd dug his nails into his palms hard enough to draw blood. He was also, he realised, grinding his teeth hard enough for his jaw to ache. He drew a shaky breath, coming to a stop on the fifth or sixth floor landing, before leaning against the wall and deliberately loosening both jaw and fists, scowling down at the scarlet-lined, crescent indentations marring each palm.

He should have gone to school today, instead of skipping out of it to meet up with Mycroft, which he could easily have done in the afternoon. Although he knew there was no way either Moriarty or the moron were in any shape to do damage to Molly – with any luck they'd be out of commission for at least a week – he still shouldn't have left her on her own. Not until their mutual adversaries were permanently out of the picture.

No. He couldn't face her, couldn't talk to her. Not yet. Not until his rage at what had almost transpired in that seedy little garage had dissipated a bit more. Not until he could look at her without wanting to simultaneously kiss the breath out of her and shake her until her teeth rattled in her head.

Monday. He would go back to school on Monday. By then his uncharacteristically tumultuous emotions should have settled down enough for him to be able to face her again.


	8. Condemnation

Monday morning came, and Molly forced herself to go to school. She'd managed to successfully avoid her mam all weekend, claiming a sick stomach to avoid school on Friday, but there was only so much hiding in her room she could do. After her mam left for work, dropping Devlin at the neighbour's, Molly emerged from her room. Meg had been uncharacteristically helpful, getting Niall and Fergus ready without a complaint, and Molly supposed it was because she wasn't used to her older sister being ill.

The mirror certainly hadn't shown Molly a girl who looked in the pink of health, even after three full days had passed; the bruise on her neck was somewhat faded, but Jimmy had nearly broken the skin and she doubted it would be fully healed for a few days more. Still, it remained the most visible of the marks he and Seb had left on her body, and she resigned herself to wearing scarves and long-sleeved blouses just as the late-spring weather was warming up.

To make it even worse, she'd seen neither hide nor hair of Sherlock that entire time. She'd half-expected him to show up on her doorstep, or at least toss some gravel at her window, but although she'd kept waking up at every noise during the four long nights that had passed since she last saw him, it was never him.

He probably hated her. And why not, when she hated herself at the moment? She should have known that he'd have some plan of his own to deal with Jimmy and Seb. Then again, if he'd only told her so...she sighed and rested her head on her locker. He'd been so angry when he left her at home. No kiss goodbye, no lingering looks. Nothing but a cold silence that chilled her more than the cool night air.

She lifted her head after a moment, straightened her shoulders, and resolved to give him a little more time. If she still hadn't seen him or heard from him by the middle of the week, she would find him and demand that he talk to her.

Feeling a bit better at having reached a decision, she opened her locker and was pulling out her books when she heard Mary call her name. “Molly! You're back!”

Molly took a deep breath before turning to face her friend, pasting a wide grin on her face. “Yeah, just a little under the weather on Friday,” she started to say, only to fall silent as Mary gasped at the sight of her. So much for people not noticing her peaked face and tired eyes.

“Oh, God, Molly, what happened to you? Did you and Sherlock have an accident on his motorbike? Because he looks even worse than you do,” she added as she tipped Molly's chin up in order to take a closer look at the nick at the top of her throat. “Is that why you two were out of school on Friday?”

“No, nothin' like that,” Molly replied without thinking. She gave herself a mental slap for not having thought up something to tell her friend earlier. “Don't worry, Mary, I'm fine. Really.”

Molly pushed her friend's hands away, wincing as Mary's finger caught on the edge of the scarf she'd loosely tied around her throat, exposing the top of the massive purple bruise Jimmy had left on her neck.

Mary gasped again at the sight of it, then compressed her lips into a grim line and hauled Molly into the girl's loo. She locked the door after making sure the cubicles were all empty, pushed Molly over by the sink and gave her another searching look. “What the hell happened last Thursday, Molly Hooper?” she demanded. “Did that bas...did Sherlock do something to you? Because I didn't want to believe the gossip...”

“What gossip? What are ya talkin' about?” Molly demanded as she stared at her friend in alarmed confusion. “And no, Sherlock didn't do anythin' to me, it's not his fault I – what gossip?” she asked again, desperate to keep Mary from asking her to explain _what_ wasn't Sherlock's fault.

Mary's eyes shifted a bit before meeting Molly's again, and she took the other girl's hands in hers, holding them tightly as she said: “Molly, some of the girls are whispering that Sherlock hurt you. Attacked you, then attacked Jimmy Moriarty and Seb Moran when they tried to help you.”

Molly stared at her friend in disbelief, unable to stop the hysterical laughter that burst from her mouth even when she freed her hands from Mary's grip and clamped them over her lips. So that was the spin Jimmy and Seb were putting on the story, was it? Oh, God, even if she denied it, Sherlock didn't have any other friends in school; people were all too willing to believe the worst of the English lad – and of her if she tried to defend him. “What else are they sayin'?” she asked Mary when she felt able to speak. “Because that isn't all of it, is it.”

Mary bit her lip and looked down, then reached up to rub her hand along Molly's arm. “They're sayin' you...let him, at least at first,” she murmured, the 'lower class brogue' her parents had worked so hard to erase from her speech patterns coming back in her distress. “They're sayin' ya came on ta Seb and Jimmy as well. Some of them are callin' you a slut and sayin' that's why Sherlock...well. You know.”

Oh yes, Molly knew. The ugly word that none of the girls her age were supposed to know.

Rape.

Only the wrong boy was being accused – and this time, yeah, the girl actually had 'asked for it' by offering herself up to two lowlifes to try and keep her boyfriend safe. So technically the gossips were correct...and so utterly, utterly wrong Molly didn't even know what to say to her friend to explain things.

“I know none of it’s true, Molly,” Mary went on to say. “Ya wouldn't ever lead a boy on like that, and if Sherlock did somethin' to hurt ya, ya wouldn't defend him, right?” The look in her eyes was fierce, but Molly knew it was in her own defence. Because that was the kind of friend Mary Morstan was, loyal to the bitter end.

Molly shook her head. No, she wouldn't defend a boy who tried to do such a terrible thing to her. However, it was her and Sherlock's word against Jimmy and Seb's...and again, Sherlock's troubled history was against him. Molly had witnessed firsthand how people blamed the girl when something like this happened; why would it be any different with her? Just because she'd never had a reputation for being fast didn't mean people wouldn't turn on her at the drop of a hat.

“Right.” Mary's lips were compressed in that hard, thin line that meant she was truly furious, but her eyes had gone a bit distant, as if she were miles away – or busy scheming. Normally that meant harmless fun, but not this time. “There's one last bit for you to know, then we have to figure out what to do about it all.”

“One last bit?” Molly asked, feeling faint and queasy. How much worse could this get?

“I heard Trevor O'Donnell and Martin Connelly bragging that you'd slept with them as well.”

Her old boyfriends. She'd dated Martin last year for about six months before he'd broken things off with her to date a girl from across town. And Victor, God, she'd dated Victor when she was just fourteen, how could either of them say such horrible, untrue things about her? “They're lyin',” she told Mary, feeling sick and helpless. “Both of 'em. And I know who set them on to do it, too.”

“Jimmy Moriarty and Seb Moran?” Mary asked, and Molly nodded.

“Has ta be,” she said grimly. Then, decision made, she took a deep breath and told Mary everything, leaving nothing out. Not the sneaking out to meet Jimmy, not the way Sherlock had come to her rescue, not the almost-attack in the alley...and not the way she'd offered herself to Jimmy – and, as it turned out, to Seb – in exchange for them leaving Sherlock in peace. She concluded by explaining how Sherlock had come to her rescue.

“And it's a good thing he did, too!” Mary said indignantly. “Molly Hooper, you know that was a really stupid thing to do, don't you? Incredibly brave and sweet and...oh. My. _God_!” she broke off to exclaim as she stared at her friend. “You're in love with him, aren't you!”

Before Molly could respond to that – should it be called a formal accusation or just a sudden revelation? – a pounding came at the bathroom door, and they heard several peeved-sounding female voices demanding entry.

Molly quickly turned to the sink and washed away the remnants of the tears she hadn't realized were falling from her eyes. She listened with half an ear as Mary made up some story about not realizing the lock had been engaged, doing her best to keep her breathing even and willing her heart to slow down a bit. She studied her reflection in the mirror, noting that yes, she now looked almost as bad as she had on Thursday last, and wondered how in the world she was going to get through the rest of the day, let alone the week, the month, or the rest of the school year.

She knew the ugly things Mary told her that people were saying were just rumours and innuendo and outright lies, but even though she had the truth on her side, it was a truth only she and Sherlock knew for sure.

Oh, sweet mother Mary. Sherlock. Was he in school today, did he know about the rumours swirling about? People were already willing to think the worst of him, and even if he didn't care what people thought of him most of the time, surely being accused of forcing himself on a girl would bother him? What if the rumours reached the ears of the teachers or, God forbid, the Headmistress? Like as not he'd be expelled or worse, even if she denied being attacked by him, and if word ever got back to her mother...

Tears threatened again, and she managed to force them back only by reminding herself that she loved Sherlock and would never allow him to be punished for something he didn't do. She might not be able to stop Jim and Seb from spreading lies, but she could and would deny that Sherlock had ever hurt her.

She raised her head, wiping away the last of the tears prickling her eyes. Yes, she still looked like hell walking, but she was going to hold her head high and get through this day, and the next, and the next after that. Talk was just that – talk. She wouldn't allow it to ruin her, or Sherlock.

Ever.


	9. Conciliation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to my wonderful Beta LoyaulteMeLie for helping make this story the best it can be. I think there will only be two chapters after this one, with a time jump after the next one. Sorry it's short again but I really felt it needed to end where it did. :) Thanks to everyone for reviewing and following and favoriting as well!

When Sherlock returned to school on Wednesday, after nearly a week spent avoiding everyone – especially Molly – while he waited for his temper to cool and his brother’s plans to be set into motion (plans to which Sherlock, it would appear, was not to be made privy, much to his disgruntlement), it was to discover just how much damage that near-week of absence had caused.

The whispers started as soon as he came through the front door, and followed him down the hall as he headed to his locker. He ignored them, was used to them, but as soon as he reached for the combination lock supposedly protecting his belongings, he realized something was different this time. How different, he was to soon discover.

The smell was the first clue: sharp and a bit spicy. Mustard, he concluded, while his fingers automatically entered the combination and pulled down the lock. He pulled open the door, not surprised to find that someone had squeezed an entire bottle of mustard into his locker, through the row of three ventilation openings in the front. If he cared about such things, he’d be upset that his texts and notepads had been damaged, if not ruined, but all he did was frown in an abstract manner as he calculated when the prank, if prank it was, had been played.

“Monday afternoon,” he murmured to himself, then shrugged and slammed the locker shut. He wasn’t going to be around much longer – a week, possibly two – and couldn’t care less what anyone did to the things he left at school.

“Didn’t think you’d have the nerve to show your face here,” he heard from behind him, a distinctly unpleasant voice. Female, shrill and grating. Janine Hawkins, from his Lit class. Sat near the front, simpered and giggled any time any male went by, no matter how unattractive; dark brown hair, four elder siblings, two cats, father deceased. Barely passing basic maths. Boring, dull, ordinary and extremely bitchy.

He turned to face her, arms crossed across his chest as he leaned back and deliberately swept his gaze over her from head to foot. She stepped back a step, her expression suddenly nervous, until she was joined by several of her friends, equally insipid, equally lacking in intelligence – and all wearing hostile expressions. He sighed; whatever he’d supposedly done to earn such universal ire from the nastiest, most spiteful girls in school had best be dealt with, and quickly. He had far more important matters he needed to attend to. “Well?” he asked, deliberately sounding as bored as he could manage. “What is it? What am I supposed to have done?”

Janine tossed her head and glared at him, clearly feeling the power of the pack behind her, even though he knew he could scatter them with a few well-chosen words, let alone any kind of remotely threatening move he might make. Such as flexing his fists…no, that would simply delay the inevitable. Let the shrews have their say. “Everyone knows what ya did to the Hooper girl,” she hissed at him, lowering her voice and glancing around as if afraid of being overheard. “We’re onto ya now, Sherlock Holmes. Don’t think you’ll be gettin’ away with such goin’s on with the rest of us.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at the accusation, vague though it was. Molly would never have accused him of doing anything to her, which left Jimmy and the Moron. Who, he knew, were both still out of school as well, nursing the injuries they’d received at his hands. However, out of school didn’t necessarily mean out of touch; several of their cronies had been seen coming and going from Jimmy’s flat. Sherlock’s network of underaged informants – street kids mostly, but some who simply liked money more than they feared Jimmy Moriarty – had kept tabs on the other two boys for him while he was struggling to deal with his ridiculously out-of-control emotions, and simultaneously trying to work out whatever plan Mycroft had come up with to take care of things. God, that still rankled, having to depend on Mycroft for anything, let alone his own bloody future, but if Molly came out of this relatively unscathed, it would all be worth it.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” was all he said as he pushed himself away from the bank of lockers. The six girls backed up as one, watching wide-eyed as he passed by them. “And if I were you, _ladies_ ,” the last tossed over his shoulder with a sneer, “I’d be sure of my facts before accusing others of anything. Especially you, Janine.” He paused, then walked back to stand directly in front of her again. “For example, do your friends know about the older man you’ve been sneaking around with? The cart driver?” Then, just to drive his point home, he added, “The _married_ cart driver?”

He smirked to himself as he heard Marion stuttering out denials that her friends clearly weren’t believing. Nor should they, since he’d seen her canoodling with the older man on more than one occasion since his arrival in Dublin.

His smirk faded, however, as he remembered that this wasn’t just about putting Janine Hawkins in her well-deserved place. No, there was some sort of rumour floating about, involving something he was supposed to have done to Molly…and he had a good idea what that rumour might be. Especially if Jimmy were involved. That bastard wasn’t above setting his crimes squarely on the shoulders of another, and he would certainly have no problem making accusations about Sherlock Holmes. And if Molly Hooper suffered as well, he’d no doubt consider that killing two birds with one stone.

“I should have hit him harder,” Sherlock muttered to himself as he headed for his first class of the day. Time to see if the rumours had made it to the ears of any of the adults yet. That would inform his next move...and how he interacted with Molly.

**oOo**

As she approached her locker at lunchtime, Molly’s feet slowed at the sight of a familiar form leaning against the wall, hands shoved deeply into the pockets of his blue jeans, head lowered as if he were studying his booted feet. She wasn’t sure if she was ready to face him after nearly a week’s absence, but the sound of others chatting and laughing behind her straightened her spine and reminded her that anyone witnessing an apparent reluctance to face him on her part might interpret it to mean that those awful, filthy rumours were true. She just hoped none of the onlookers were observant enough to notice how tightly she was clutching her books and notepads to her chest as she walked right up to Sherlock and stopped in front of him.

When he looked up at her, his face virtually expression-free, the friendly smile she’d been wearing – forced, but friendly – vanished, as did her intention to keep things lighthearted between them in front of witnesses. Instead, what came out of her mouth was a plaintive: “Where’ve you been?” followed immediately by, “I’ve missed you.”

He looked at her, then flicked his eyes sideways to take in the group of students who ‘just happened’ to have business in the hallway, then back at her. Without saying a word, he straightened up and held out his hand. His expression remained stoic, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes – uncertainty, Molly thought – that kept her from demanding a response.

Shifting her books to one arm was an awkward business, but Molly did it without hesitation. She placed her left hand in his once it was free, thrilling at the feel of his warm fingers curling around her own. And when he leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to her lips – eliciting a few gasps of surprise (and, she imagined smugly, jealousy) from the onlookers – she kissed him back and allowed him to tug her along to wherever it was they were going.

They exited the building and made their way to the smoking area reserved for students, which Molly had never frequented. She wrinkled her nose to let Sherlock know exactly what she thought about his choice of locations, but before she could voice her objections aloud he grinned and veered past the empty bench, instead bringing her to the rear of the gym.

Once there he plucked her books from her arms, dropping them to the ground while she offered up a protesting, “Sherlock!”

However, when she tried to reach for them, she found herself pressed up against the brick wall with Sherlock’s hands on either side of her head, their bodies touching fully. He looked into her eyes, gave a crooked grin, and proceeded to snog her breathless.

When they finally broke apart, Molly gasped out, “I thought you were mad at me! It's been a week, Sherlock! A whole bloody week! Where've you been, have you heard the awful things people are sayin' about y...”

Sherlock responded to her series of questions not with words but with another kiss, which Molly's fanciful mind insisted tasted of desperation. Desperation to silence her, she supposed distractedly as she closed her eyes and dug her fingers into his shoulders, returning the kiss with a fair amount of desperation of her own.

When this kiss ended, Sherlock spoke, a rapid monotone, his eyes flitting about, looking everywhere, it seemed but at her. “I'm not angry, not anymore, and I'm sorry I ever was, I know you were just trying to protect me even if it wasn't the smartest move you could have made. Those pigs would have hurt you, Molly, and enjoyed every second of it, I hope you really understand that, and the thought of them hurting you...” He sucked in a ragged breath and finally met her gaze, unflinchingly allowing her to see the haunted expression in his eyes.

Molly bit her lip and tightened her grasp on his shoulders as she nodded her understanding of what he wasn't saying, what he couldn't seem to bring himself to say. He'd been angry, yes, but more than that, he'd been _frightened_ : frightened for her, for what Jimmy and Seb might have done to her, for what they still might do to her. Sullying their reputations was undoubtedly only the first step in whatever revenge the two – well, Jimmy, at least, since Seb wasn't exactly the brightest penny in the pouch – planned to take against her and Sherlock.

She pulled her right hand free of its death-grip on his shoulder and carefully reached up to slide her palm along his cheek. “So what do we do now, how do we fix this?” she whispered, because among the many things Sherlock hadn't said, one the most important was the fact that he had a plan. She knew he did, else he wouldn't have come to her like this, so full of tightly coiled tension. So she asked the only thing she could.

“What do you need?”


	10. Conceding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soo...this chapter was going to be a lot longer and then the time skip was going to happen, but instead the chapter ends where it does for reasons and there will be one more chapter (finger's crossed) before the time skip, which will contain the reason for the story's M rating. Thanks to everyone for being so patient, and to my lovely beta, FF.net's wonderful and patient (and extremely well versed in 1950s Dublinese) LoyaulteMeLie, whose Star Trek: Enterprise stories featuring Malcolm Reed are a real treasure. Read them.

Molly Hooper, Sherlock decided, was the most amazing female in the entire bloody universe. Any other girl in her position would have berated him for essentially abandoning her for an entire week, especially after so traumatic a night. For being angry with her when in actuality she’d done nothing wrong, only tried to make a bad situation better.

To protect him.

Thank God the rumours swirling about hadn’t yet reached the ears of the teachers or Headmistress; so far, it appeared, the students had been keeping their stupid mouths shut when it came to the school’s authority figures or their own parents. Otherwise, he knew, he’d have already been hauled in front of the Headmistress to face a great many dull, but unpleasant, questions. As would Molly, which absolutely would NOT do.

“What do you need?”

The question, so quietly asked, was both unexpected and exactly what he should have known she would ask. Of course she was thinking about _him, his_ needs, rather than her own; it probably hadn’t even occurred to her that _he_ should be the one asking _her_ that question.

Especially since he knew that plans had been set in motion, even if he was as in the dark as she was as to what those plans might be.

He told her everything; how angry he’d been, at Seb and the Moron and himself, and even her (which she already knew, but he felt a compulsion to spell it all out). How she’d upset the plans he’d set into motion -- and he could see by the tears welling in her eyes how those plans hurt her, even knowing they weren’t going to go forward. How he’d been forced to turn to his brother for assistance…and what terms he’d agreed to in order to secure that assistance.

At that Molly’s tears threatened to become full-on sobs, but she brushed angrily at her wet cheeks, sucked in a breath…and let him have it, both barrels, no holding back, her brogue thick with anger and hurt and fear, the words tumbling over one another so quickly that she was nearly impossible to understand. “Sherlock Holmes, ya bloody, stupid _eejit_ …how could ya agree ta such? Ta exilin’ yersel’ and leavin’ me…I won't be needin' any o’ yer family’s _charity_ , I’ll make my own way in th’ world, ye daft fool! An’ if Jimmy Moriarty or Sebastian Moran try any more o’ their nonsense I’ll scratch their eyes out, just see if I don’t! I won’t be lettin’ them force ya into such a devil’s deal, yer brother can go to the devil himself, he can! I won’t let him bully ya like this! I won’t…”

The only way to stop her was to kiss her again. Well, he could have clamped a hand over her mouth, but she probably wouldn’t take such an action well, certainly not in her current state of emotional upheaval. This, this very reaction was why he always tried to avoid such entanglements…and yet he couldn’t find it in his heart to feel anything but sympathy for her. No, sympathy was wrong; empathy, a word he’d only recently come to understand, that was closer. She felt as he did, that there had to be another way out of this mess…but he knew the truth, a truth she was still trying very hard to deny.

There was no other way out, unless the two of them ran away together. And he would never ask her to give up her future, the one she’d fought for and dreamed about for so long, the one her father wanted for her and the one she deserved.

He was, much to his chagrin, nowhere near as selfish as he'd always believed himself to be.

When he pulled away from her, he could see that her fury hadn't abated, but before she could find the breath to launch into another furious diatribe, he rushed in. “You asked me what I needed, Molly. Do you really want to know, or would you rather yell at me some more when we both know there's nothing you can say to change my mind?”

That took the wind out of her sails; she sagged against the wall, ducking her head and lowering her eyes in a posture of such utter defeat that Sherlock felt like the biggest arse in the world. He felt an unfamiliar urge to apologize, but knowing it would do nothing but give her false hope, he forced the words back, along with the equally unfamiliar surge of guilt that soured his stomach worse than any bout of overindulging on sweets ever could.

“Look,” he said, sucking in a breath and letting it out in a near-sigh, “I don’t know what my brother has planned, but I do know that it’ll involve us not being allowed to see one another for probably the next two years.” He pressed a finger against her lips as she started to protest and she subsided, although the hurt, angry expression on her face did nothing to ease the clenching of his stomach. “We both know a lot can happen in two years; we’ll be done with secondary school and starting at university and maybe…maybe your feelings for me will change, who knows?” He managed a soft smile as her expression turned indignant and she shook her head fiercely. “Maybe they won’t. All I’m saying is, no matter what, you’ll always matter to me, Molly Hooper. You’ve always counted and I’ve always trusted you. I just need you to trust me on this; keeping you safe is the most important thing in the world to me right now. So don’t fight me, don’t turn down whatever Mycroft cooks up for you, and for God’s sake – don’t try to stop this from happening. Just…let it fall where it will. Can you do that for me?”

Molly was silent for a long time, nearly a full minute, while tears pooled in her eyes until they overflowed and streaked her face. He wiped them away with his thumbs, waiting for her answer.

Finally she gave a shuddering breath and threw her arms around him, resting her cheek on his chest as she choked out, “Of course, ya daft fool. I promise.”

“All of it?” Sherlock pressed, wanting to make sure she was agreeing to everything he’d just asked of her, including ‘taking his family’s charity’ although he didn’t see it that way. In his mind, it was just redistributing the family’s wealth in a far better manner than entertaining yet another group of boring diplomats or politicians. And when he put it that way to Molly, she reluctantly agreed to allow the scholarship fund to be set up, although she clearly felt far from pleased with the terms and conditions Mycroft had insisted upon.

Since Sherlock was none too pleased with them himself – but unable to do anything about them – he could see her point of view, but was more than relieved when she finally broke down and said yes.

However, it appeared she had some terms and conditions of her own. She pulled away from him, taking his hands in hers and staring up at him with a sorrowful determination that he both admired and wished he wasn’t the cause of. “I won’t…won’t make ya promise to wait for me, or promise to wait for ya myself, either,” Molly said, her voice as determined as her expression. “Two years is a long time, like ya said, and a lot can happen.” Her expression was fierce as she added, “But Sherlock Holmes, you’d best find a way to send word to me now and again, to let me know you’re alive and well, all right? Since your family’ll be fundin’ my education, I’m sure it’ll be easy enough for ya to keep tabs on me. Do this for me and I promise to do whatever ya need me to do until we see each other again, even if it’s…if it’s just as friends.”

Ah, quid pro quo; he’d asked something of her, and so she was asking something of him. Something he didn’t particularly want to agree to, but since that was what today was all about, he did, nodding to indicate that he would do as she asked.

She gave him a sad smile before leaning up on her tiptoes to kiss him. When she made as if to pull away, he refused to let her go, kissing her far more roughly and with more desperation than he ever had before. He had no idea if this was to be the last time they saw one another until his ‘voluntary’ exile from her life was up, but if it was intended to make the most of it.

Hell, if he thought they could get away with it, he’d drag her off the school grounds, ride off with her on the moron’s motorbike to some secluded glen and make love to her. But there was no chance of that happening today, not when their privacy had limitations on it and not when he was still uncertain if she’d allow it; he had to get her back to class, and then wait to see what Mycroft would do next.

She returned the kiss with equal fervour, no doubt sharing his uncertainty and fears for the future.

A future, alas, that was all too quick to arrive.

oOo

At the end of the school day Sherlock was loitering by the bicycle rack, waiting for Molly to emerge from front door in order to walk her home, when a large black car pulled up to the kerb. He huffed out an impatient breath; really, Mycroft worked fast but he couldn’t believe his brother worked _that_ fast, even if their father was helping him!

However, when he made to open the back door, the driver had jumped out and stopped him. “Sorry, Mr. Holmes, it’s not for you. It’s for Miss Hooper.”

Sherlock stared at Stubbins blankly. “Miss Hooper?” he repeated, his eyes moving rapidly between the car, the driver, and the line of curious students eager to find out who the posh car belonged to. “Why did my brother send a car for Molly?” His eyes narrowed suspiciously as he added, “If he thinks he can intimidate her…”

But Stubbins was shaking his head, his expression serious as he explained. “It’s her father, Mr. Holmes, he’s taken a bad turn.” Sherlock didn’t have to ask how Stubbins knew all this; once Molly Hooper had become a complication in his brother’s life rather than a temporary addition to it, Mycroft had no doubt put some of his people – spies, Sherlock called them, believing in not hiding behind the euphemisms his brother seemed to love so much – to keeping an eye on her and her family. And if he’d gone so far as to send Stubbins here with the car, then obviously he’d made some sort of contact with Mrs. Hooper.

That deduction was confirmed as Stubbins continued speaking, keeping his voice low in respect of their unwanted audience. “Miss Hooper’s mother is already at the hospital, and has agreed to allow your brother bring her to join her.” He hesitated, lowering his voice further before adding, “I understand Mr. Hooper is not expected to last through the night, sir.”

Sherlock stared at him blankly. “I’ll take her on my motor…” But Stubbins was shaking his head. Respectfully, but firmly. Sherlock sighed, knowing that the separation from Molly had begun, as had the ‘taking care of her future’ bit his brother had promised. “I’ll get her,” he finally said, turning on his heels and all but running up the steps and back into the building he’d just exited.

He nearly bowled Molly over in his haste to reach her, ignoring the stares and resentful murmurs of the students he jostled on his way to her side. She was walking with her friend Mary, whom he’d met once or twice and whose last name he could never seem to recall. Morris? Morastan? Something like that. Unimportant; he needed to speak to Molly, to let her know what was going on. They only had a few minutes and then she would be whisked away in his brother’s car.

Without him, when all he wanted to do was be by her side for as long as he could.

“Sherlock! What’s wrong?” she asked as he caught her shoulder, both to brace himself as he skidded to a stop and because he frankly wanted to. Mary was staring at him, wide-eyed, but he ignored her as he took a breath and answered Molly’s question, explaining quickly what was going on.

Molly’s eyes got wider and wider and her face paled; she swayed a bit and might have fallen if it wasn’t for Sherlock’s hand on her shoulder and Mary’s arm around her friend’s waist. “The car is waiting out front,” he concluded. “Your mother’s at the hospital and I imagine one of the neighbours is watching your brothers and sister.”

She nodded, appearing incapable of speaking, and moved when he and Mary gently urged her to, slowly at first but then almost running as they neared the front door. Sherlock held it open and escorted the two of them to the car. Stubbins opened the door and tipped his hat to the two girls respectfully, promising Molly that he would get her to the hospital as quickly as possible. Mary leaned close and gave Molly a comforting hug, then stepped away and glanced at Sherlock. He nodded at her, tight-lipped, then stepped forward and embraced Molly as well, brushing his lips across her forehead and murmuring his hopes (futile, as they both knew) that her father would successfully make it through this crisis.

He and Mary watched as the car drove away. It was the last time Sherlock would see her for two years.


	11. Combustion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter and an epilogue to go after this. Thanks for reading, commenting & following!

**London, 1957**

The bottom level of the fire escape wasn’t exactly the best place for a girl to sit and think – especially with the sordid view of rubbish bins leaning up against the alley wall opposite – but the flat was far too hot on this late May afternoon for Molly to even think about going back inside without a really, really good reason. 

She'd been in London for almost two years now. Her first year at university had been spent living in the dorms, although now she was sharing the flat she currently rented with her best friend Mary Morstan, who had taken a year off before finally deciding to study nursing in London. Just like Molly, she had no desire to spend the entirety of her life in Dublin.

Molly’s education was entirely funded by a scholarship the Holmes family, as promised. She’d had no personal contact with any of them since saying good-bye to Sherlock and rushing off to visit her da in hospital.

A visit that had ended, sadly, in his death not long after.

She still missed her da, missed him fiercely, but she’d been saying good-bye to him in her mind and heart for nearly a year before he’d been taken from them, and it was someone else she’d lost at that same time that she missed more.

Sherlock. After that horrible day, she’d never laid eyes on him again. There had been some kerfuffle about him and Jimmy Moriarty and Seb Moran that Mary had told her about. Although her friend had precious little in the way of details, Molly had gleaned more from the other gossips who’d side-eyed her for a few weeks for her involvement with the English lad. The three of them – he, Jimmy, and Seb – had all been whisked away by their families, Seb and Jimmy to military schools in Wales and Scotland, respectively, and Sherlock…no one knew. 

For the first year after she’d moved to London, Molly had no idea, either. 

She reflected on her current life, marveling at how far she’d come, at the sacrifices that she’d made and had been made on her behalf. She was nineteen years old now, living pretty much on her own in a city far from the land of her birth. It was almost like being an orphan; her father was gone and her mother only kept in touch enough to nag at her about the way she'd 'abandoned' her family responsibilities – even though Molly's younger siblings had been sent to live with their aunt and uncle on their farm in Derry after their father's death. It was Molly’s belief that she could better serve her family by making something of herself, and oh, hadn't her mother had sharp words for her when she'd expressed _that_ opinion the night before she'd left for London!

Still, it was the truth and Molly refused to take it back. Things between herself and her mother had only gotten worse as time passed, and she couldn't help a guilty feeling of relief that they were so far apart now.

But the pain that the rift in her family caused her was nothing compared to the pain she'd felt during that first year without so much as a single word from Sherlock Holmes. Had he found someone new, had he forgotten her; had his family finally convinced him that she wasn't good enough for him?

All such worries had vanished when she'd received the first picture post-card from him. It had been posted from Switzerland, where he was apparently attending some exclusive private school. At least, that was the subject of the picture, which interested her far less than the brief message on the opposite side: _Studying chemistry, not as boring as I expected. Miss you. Sherlock._

His sprawling signature had filled the remaining space, and the post-card had been sent to her correct address, so he knew where she was. She wrote him back, of course, a long letter telling him everything that had happened since they last saw one another, but she'd received only another post-card in response, the message just as terse as the first one, but far more poignant: _Still miss you. Have to buckle down and study so you may not hear from me for a while. Sorry. Part of the deal. Sherlock._

'The deal' was the one he'd worked out with his brother. The one where he agreed to leave her behind in exchange for Jimmy Moriarty and Seb Moran's removal from her life. She hoped the military schools their fathers had placed them in taught them some manners, although she doubted it. No, those two had been bad eggs for far too long for even the strictest environment to have much of an effect on them. She was just relieved they were too far away to be able to continue to torment her. And Sherlock was safe from them as well; for that alone she'd have willingly spent the rest of her life separated from him.

But that didn't mean she didn't still miss him, quite desperately. Mary had tried to coax her into going on dates with some of the fellas they met at university, but after Molly kept coming up with excuses as to why she couldn't, Mary had finally given up. 

Molly leaned her chin on her hand and sighed. She'd changed out of her nice clothes and thrown on a pair of jeans, rolling them up to her calves even though all she could hear was her mother's disapproving voice in her head as she did so. 'Only tomboys dress like that, Molly Kathleen Hooper! And tyin' your shirt up and barin' your belly like that? People will think you're nothin' but a common trollop!'

She slammed a mental lid on her mother's imagined voice, knowing that she'd also disapprove of the way Molly had taken off her tennis shoes and set them to the side, or the way her legs were dangling over the edge of the fire escape. Nothing Molly had done for years had satisfied her mother, and there was no point fretting over it now that she was living so far from home, chasing a dream that had once seemed out of reach and now was well on its way to becoming a reality.

She dreaded the letters that arrived once a month from her mother. Obligation letters, Mary called them, just like the letters Molly sent back in response. All her mother did was complain about how difficult her life was now that her beloved Henry was gone. Even though it had been her own idea to send Meg and the boys to live with her brother, her mam complained about that as well. And kept lecturing Molly on how she ought to give up the idea of becoming a doctor, return home, find a nice boy and settle down into the life that had been 'good enough' for her parents and their parents before them.

Invariably the letters would return to the subject of how much she missed Henry, how Molly couldn't possibly understand her mother's pain. As if she were the only one missin' him...

Molly swiped at a tear, determined not to cry. She leaned her arms against the lowest guard rail and unwillingly contemplated returning to her studies. Just then, the sound of an approaching motorbike caught her attention. She looked down and toward the entrance of the alley, curious to see what was going on, glad of the distraction. If the rider thought the alleyway was a shortcut to the next street, they were in for a disappointment, and if they tried to park their motorbike here, she'd be sure to advise them that the landlord would take a dim view of such...

Her mind went completely and utterly blank as the motorbike pulled up beneath her, the rider looking very familiar. No, it couldn't be...but it was.

It was Sherlock, looking up at her with a very foreign uncertainty in his expression, as if unsure how she would react to seeing him after so much time had passed. “Hey, Molly,” he said, his voice exactly as she’d remembered it even though it had been ages since she'd last heard him speak. “I'm sorry I couldn't come sooner, but,” he shrugged, “that was the deal. I did what my family wanted, kept up my grades, so now I get to finish up my last two years here in London.”

She stared down at him, and he suddenly seemed further away – why? Oh. She looked down to see that she’d risen to her feet, was now standing with her hands clenched so tightly around the top rail that she could fancied she could feel every flake of rust beneath her palms. “Sherlock,” she whispered, then hurtled herself to where the ladder was pulled up from the ground, tugging at it frantically while her vision blurred – why was it…?

Oh. Of course. She was crying. Dimly she heard him calling her name, sounding concerned, as she continued to tug at the stubborn mechanism holding the ladder in place. Stupid thing was stuck, the landlord was a cheap barstard and most likely had never had it oiled as he should have. Trapping her here, he was, just when she most needed to reach the ground…

“Molly! Molly!” The second time Sherlock called her name she finally heard him, looking at him as fat tears continued to roll down her cheeks. He was standing almost directly underneath her, his arms raised. “Jump down, I’ll catch you!”

Brilliant; she'd always known he was brilliant and if she'd ever doubted him he'd just proven it again. The oddly tentative expression on his face had changed to something halfway between alarm and eagerness as she ducked beneath the railing and jumped, allowing herself to be caught in his arms.

Slight as she was, he still huffed a bit as he caught her. Instead of lowering her to the ground, however, he only held her tighter, swinging her in a small circle before coming to a stop. “You forgot your shoes,” he said in a husky voice as Molly wrapped her arms around his neck, and her legs around his waist, then planted her mouth on his for a wonderful, toe-tingling kiss that was long overdue.

Oh, that lovely kiss, so wonderful it was if the Earth was moving beneath her feet...oh. It was, in a manner of speaking; Molly opened her eyes long enough to see that Sherlock was moving them toward the brick wall behind her, stopping only once they were close enough for her back to rest against it for extra support. His hands slid down until they supported her arse – rather forward of him considering how long they'd been apart, but then again, she'd been the one to start kissing him rather than the other way round so she didn't exactly have a leg to stand on.

She giggled a bit at the aptness of that metaphor, causing him to pull his head away and frown at her. His eyes were the exact colour she remembered them being, that coke-bottle blue-green with flecks of amber round the pupils, so lovely, so unusual...so annoyed with her at the moment. “What's so funny, Molly Kathleen Hooper?” he asked, his voice a dangerous growl as he shifted his right knee forward to better support her.

“Nothin’,” she whispered, glad to realize that she'd stopped crying, finally. “Everythin's just perfect, is all. I'm happy, you great eejit, can't you tell? Now stop actin’ all put out and kiss me again,” she ordered him with a smile.

And, bless him, he did. A proper kiss this time, mouths open, tongues duelling as she draped her arm over his shoulders, one hand reaching up to toy with the hair on the back of his head. Oh, it started off sweet, that kiss, but quickly turned rough and passionate. Clearly the want she was feeling wasn't all one sided; had he truly missed her as much as she'd missed him? After almost two years and only limited contact she should really be yelling at him, telling him off, but all she wanted to do was drag him up to her flat and shag him silly.

Oh, wait, had she really just thought that? Was that was what was about to happen here?

_Yes_ , she decided with a fierceness and certainty she hadn't felt in a long, long time. _It is._

Sherlock's body felt hot, almost feverish, against hers, and there was a definite bulge beneath his denim trousers at the point where their groins were pressed together. He slapped one hand on the wall by her head, leaving the other one still holding her easily in place, and she felt her own temperature rising as she made her decision. However, if she didn't put the brakes on soon, their first time together – her first time with anyone – was going to be right here in this alley.

No. Absolutely not. If she and Sherlock were going to do it, it was going to be in a proper bed, not up against some filthy alley wall, her in her rubbish clothes and him with a pack of cigarettes rolled up in his shirtsleeve like some common thug. With that in mind, she pulled her mouth away from his and hissed, “Not here, Sherlock, please!”

His eyes, which had gone a bit wild, seemed to focus on hers, and he frowned but allowed her to slide down his body, although he rested her feet on top of his boots rather than letting her touch the filthy asphalt. She dropped her hands on his shoulders as their gazes met and held. “My flat is on the third floor. My flatmate's staying over at her boyfriend's, so we'll have the place to ourselves. If, if that's what you want,” she added, suddenly self-conscious and uncertain. What if this wasn't what he wanted after all, what if the kisses and the grinding didn't mean what she thought...

“Stop it, Molly,” he ordered her, brow furrowed in annoyance. “I didn't come looking for you just to...I want you, too,” he finished in a rush.

Sherlock tongue-tied and bashful was a sight she'd never thought she'd see, and it only made her want him more. “If you lift me up, I should be able to figure out how to get the bloody ladder down for you,” was all she said, knowing that if she voiced her true feelings he'd feel obligated to prove he wasn't as nervous and anxious as she was and likely storm off in a snit. “I left my keys on my dresser, so we can't go round the front.”

Besides, she wasn't particularly anxious to parade him before any of the busybodies who lived in her building, which mostly housed Irish ex-pats of an older generation as well as Molly and Mary and a few other university-aged girls. She wasn’t terribly worried about protecting her reputation, but rather preferred to avoid the haranguing she would be in for if her mother found out she’d brought a strange man into her flat.

That thought brought a snort of laughter to her lips. She was well aware that she was acting in a manner her mother would find scandalous and sinful. She'd had been full of dire warnings about the fast boys Molly would meet if she insisted on going to London to get her education instead of a proper Irish university, and here she was, proving her mother a prophet.

She wanted to make love to Sherlock, wanted it with all her heart. Clearly he wanted it as well, judging by the hungry look in his eyes as he gazed down at her. “I missed you,” he confessed. “I missed you and I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to give you a proper good-bye before I left, but you know I did it to keep you safe and I won't apologize for that. But I will apologize for not doing a better job of keeping in touch,” he added softly. “I just...it was hard, to try and focus on what my parents and brother expected of me, so I had to sort of...let you go, a bit. Lock you up until it was safe to think about you again. I hope you understand.”

He looked a bit lost as he made that last confession, and all Molly's doubts and worries were forever banished as he met her gaze. “I do,” she whispered in response.

He kissed her again, fiercely, his arms locked around her slender waist as she stood on the tips of his boots, her arms around his neck, and returned the kiss just as fiercely.

There would be time to sort things out between them later, she decided as the kiss ended, feeling utterly reckless. Yes, she was more than ready to give herself to him, to sneak him up the fire escape and into her flat, to take him to her bed like some common slag – and she couldn't care less. If she was going to hell for sleeping with Sherlock out of wedlock, then so be it.

Luckily Mary was with her latest – and certainly her most serious – boyfriend. Molly was glad that her friend seemed to have found someone she wanted to settle down a bit for. And the fact that he was a medical student – John Watson, his name was John Watson and he was a pleasant enough bloke but for some reason it had taken Molly almost a month to remember his name – meant that he and Molly had something in common. It certainly helped that he was different to so many of her classmates, didn't condescend to her or treat her like a freak for wanting to become a pathologist.

She suspected he and Mary were sleeping together, but Mary for once was tight-lipped about her escapades and Molly had never been one to push the way her friend had.

She was jolted from her thoughts when Sherlock suddenly grabbed her by the waist and hoisted her up. She flailed about a bit before she realised he was doing as she'd asked, then grinned down at him before reaching up and wrapping her hands around the lowest railing. Sherlock released his hold, only to grab her by the calves and shove her up high enough that she could scramble onto the metal decking.

When she turned to look down at him, she discovered that he'd taken a bit of a running start and managed to hoist himself halfway up beside her. She backed up and gave him room to roll under the railing as she just had, then jump to his feet. “Sherlock, what about your motorbike?” she asked. “Aren't you worried it might get stolen?”

He shrugged and grinned, the half-grin that meant he'd been up to some mischief or other. “It might. Then again, it's stolen in the first place so I'm not too worried about it.”

Before she could protest, he'd pulled her close for another searing kiss, then handed her her tennis shoes. “I believe you were about to show me your flat, Miss Hooper,” he said, his voice a husky whisper, his lips brushing her earlobe and sending a delicious shiver up her spine. “Shall we?”

Once her knees stopped wobbling, she shoved her feet into her tennis shoes without bothering to lace them and hurried up the metal stairs. Sherlock was right behind her, holding her hand in his firm grip, allowing her to tug him along.


	12. Consummation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tonight's motto is "Why Wait?" So here's the NSFW chapter you've all been waiting for. :)

They had to let go in order to clamber over the window sill, but as soon as they were both in her bedroom he reached for her again, taking her in his arms and pressing his mouth against hers. Their bodies were touching so closely that Molly could easily feel the hard length of his erection warm and heavy against her thigh. Then his hands were all over her, tugging at the knot in her blouse, clutching her arse in order to press her more firmly against his body, running over her breasts and ending up cupping her face as he continued to kiss her with feverish intensity.

She helped him pull his t-shirt up over his head, the packet of ciggies dropping to the floor next to the discarded shirt, followed swiftly by his boots and socks and jeans and – oh, scandalous! – he wasn't wearing any pants at all! Molly's eyes widened as she took in the sight of his lovely toned form, the smooth muscles of his body nothing at all as she'd imagined them to be simply because she'd never seen anything so perfect, not even the amazing marble statues in the British Museum her mam would have been scandalised by. 

Some of her awe must have shown in her face, because he went very still as he turned to face her. Then his lips curved in that smile she'd been missing for so long, a slight flush rose to his cheeks, and his eyes, darkened with passion, seemed to drink her in as thirstily as hers were him. She felt suddenly shy, wondering if he would be disappointed in what she was about to reveal to him – her body slender but hardly fit for gracing a magazine cover, her breasts small, all the little flaws suddenly looming large in her mind’s eye – even as her fingers worked to complete the job of removing her own clothing, only fumbling a tiny bit, revealing her nervousness to his sharp gaze.

“You could never disappoint me, Molly,” he said, his voice rich and smooth as cream as he turned to face her, giving her her first real look at a fully aroused, naked man. She gave a slight gasp, partially of surprise and partially of delight at the sight of him, and felt her knees once again go wobbly. Dear Jesus, he was so big! Not that she had anything to compare him to, but how in Heaven’s name was he going to fit inside her? Surely she was too small, he wouldn’t enjoy himself, would it hurt more than she already expected it to…and she was completely inexperienced, would that bother him, would he care that she’d never done this before…?

Before the panic could completely take her over he’d moved close enough to once again gather her in his arms. She gasped at the contact, his naked body so warm and wonderful against hers, the solid heat and hardness of his prick against her belly…she wanted him, so very, very badly, the way she’d never wanted another boy. No one could compare to Sherlock, ever, and that surety calmed her nearly as well as his arms around her.

His lips were on her cheek, sliding down to the lobe of her ear, nibbling a bit, and that familiar feeling relaxed her even further. She allowed herself to hold him as well, revelling in the feel of his bare back beneath her curious fingers, slipping her hands down to rest on his narrow waist and hips and – goodness, she was awfully bold for a good Catholic girl! – eventually cupping his perfect arse, squeezing a bit as if he were a melon she was considering buying.

He made a noise, somewhere between a groan and a moan, but when she started to pull away he whispered fiercely: “Don’t you dare stop, Molly Hooper. You touch me wherever you like.”

“As long as you do the same,” she whispered right back to him, blushing at how forward she’d become since laying eyes on him less than an hour ago. He always came roaring into her life on a stolen motorbike, exactly when she needed him, she reflected. Then her mind became completely occupied with telling her how good his lips and tongue and teeth felt against her throat.

He took her at her word, grasping her arse in his hands, kneading the flesh a bit before nudging her backwards until they reached her bed. She sat on the edge, watching his eyes narrow in concentration as he toyed with the end of her braid, eyebrow raised in an obvious question. She responded by tugging off the band that held it in place and then running her fingers through the plaits in order to loosen them. He reached up and helped, eventually batting her own hands away, with a look of intense concentration back on his face, as if he were mentally cataloguing the sensation of her hair as it fell free of its usual constraints. It was so long now that it nearly reached her hips, and clearly Sherlock was utterly entranced by the sight of her this way.

She went a bit hot, her face flushing at the idea of entrancing anyone, let alone Sherlock Holmes. But when she tried to lower her head, to hide a bit behind her loosened tresses, she felt his fingertips on her chin, forcing her face back up to meet his. He kissed her, one hand lightly fisting the hair at the nape of her neck, then pressed her down so that she was lying on her back.

She continued looking up at him as he knelt over her, finally allowing her eyes to linger on his lovely prick before once again looking back up at his face, biting her lower lip but unable to refrain from smiling as their eyes met.

oOo

Sherlock felt his breath hitch in his chest at the sight of Molly smiling up at him, lower lip tucked between her perfect white teeth, so shy and yet so bold with him at the same time. He felt a fleeting regret that he’d tried to forget her at one point, that he’d had a brief series of liaisons with another woman six months into their mutual separation, but banished it. The past was the past, and it wasn’t as if he’d been a virgin before he’d fallen in love with Molly. If she asked, of course he would tell her about the month he’d spent sneaking out to meet a young singer he’d met behind the Paris Opera House, but that time certainly wasn’t now.

At least Irene had had the sense to let him know when he was doing something wrong (or at least not as well as he could be doing), gently schooling him in the difference between youthful enthusiasm and actually pleasuring his partner, instructing him properly in the art of lovemaking. Not that he’d ever call what they two of them had done anything so poetic. What he was about to do with Molly, on the other hand...oh yes, that most certainly qualified as lovemaking, or would as soon as they'd actually started it.

He'd been flattered and pleased by Molly’s frank appraisal of him, the way her eyes seemed to drink him in, even by the slightly panicky expression that had come over her when she'd taken in the size of his prick. He wasn't any barn animal hunk, but he was tall and she was a tiny little thing so he could certainly understand her concerns, unvoiced though they were. But he was confident the two of them would fit perfectly together, especially if he prepared her the way Irene had taught him.

“Use that clever tongue of yours the right way,” she'd purred to him their third time together, “and you'll have the ladies eating out of your hand.” Then she'd grinned as if she'd said something extremely naughty – which, of course, she had.

And now Molly was going to reap the benefits of his experiences. Not that he was cocky (hah! Even when he wasn't trying to be clever, he was clever!) but he was certainly confident.

And just like that, Irene Adler was banished from his thoughts, as well she should be. She'd been a delightful way to pass the lonely hours, an experienced and talented instructor for a young lad who had needed a few rough edges smoothed out, but that was all she would ever mean to him.

It was Molly he wanted to kiss now, Molly whose body he craved like the drugs he'd briefly experimented with during that same summer in Paris. Molly who was lying beneath him, open and ready for him and so completely innocent – and so eager to be debauched he could practically taste it.

Hmm, tasting…yes, definitely time to do a little experimenting, see exactly how far this good Catholic girl was willing to let him go.

With that thought in mind, he lowered his lips to hers once again, teasing her mouth open and smirking a bit as he felt her let out a breathy moan in response to the kiss. He lowered his body over hers until he was resting on his elbows, his chest just hovering above hers, but the lower half of his body nestled comfortably between her legs. When their naked groins met she gave out a bit of a squeak, and he pulled his head back in order to gauge if it was a good noise or a not-good noise.

Oh, definitely a good noise, he thought, the smirk growing. He gave an experimental wiggle of the hips and the squeak morphed into another moan, very nearly a groan, as her fingers tightened their grip on his shoulders. “Good?” he asked, knowing his voice was a bit lower than usual, husky with the desire he felt for this girl flowing through his veins like the purest hit of heroin.

Oh, fuck. Should he tell about his idiocy in experimenting with harder drugs that first summer away from Dublin? Only the sure knowledge that his brother would accuse him of breaking the deal – thus cutting off Molly’s most significant source of funding for her further education – had caused him to stop. He’d only started because he missed her, and because he’d been so lonely and miserable in Switzerland. And if he were to be honest with himself, the thought of her being disappointed in him for doing something so dangerous and, frankly, stupid, had been as much of an incentive for him to stop as concern about his brother or parents finding out.

No, he decided as she breathlessly reassured him that, yes, yes, it was most certainly ‘good’ and pulled him down for another kiss. Not right now. Eventually. He would tell her everything, leave nothing out – well, perhaps he might gloss over the interlude with Irene a bit unless Molly pressed him for details, which hardly seemed her style – but everything else…yes. He would tell her.

Later.

Molly broke the kiss to offer him a shy smile, teeth nibbling at her lower lip before she said, “I hope you thought to bring a condom with you, yeah? Cause I can't say as I was prepared for anythin' like this!”

He nodded and pulled himself off her long enough to scoop up his discarded jeans and fish out the condom he'd brought with him – just in case, no ulterior motive, although of course he'd deduced her likely reaction to his reappearance in her life and had...hopes. Not expectations, as he carefully explained to her when he laid the foil-wrapped packet on her bedside table. Just hopes.

Then he got back to work, exploring her body with lips and tongue and occasional nips just to feel her buck beneath him when he did so. Her fingers were in his hair, tugging a bit, and he made a mental note to himself to tell her how much he enjoyed that...but later. Right now he had no desire to use his mouth for speech, not when there were so many other uses to which it could be put.

He grinned to himself when she let out a muffled shriek as his mouth landed on her vulva – oh, she was already so wet, so perfectly ready for him, that it was almost unnecessary for him to taste her like this but he certainly wasn't going to stop now, not until he'd made her shriek and moan his name as she came.

A few minutes later she did just that, fingers digging into his scalp as she lifted her hips and ground herself desperately against his mouth. He swiped his tongue across her clit before sliding it rhythmically in and out of her ( _tight, hot, wet, all clichés but all so true_ ) sex. The sounds she made were incredible; soft mewls and harsh pants and every now and then the incredulous murmur of his name, all devolving into a series of high-pitched cries as he deepened the thrusts of his tongue as best he could against her internal barrier, rubbing his thumbs along the edges of her slick opening, pressing mouth and fingers against her clit, feeling her buck against him, legs shaking as her interior muscles tightened and then she cried out his name, head thrashing and body shaking as she rode out her orgasm. Not her first, he'd wager, but certainly her first not self-induced.

Thoughts of Jimmy Moriarty touching her tried to intrude on his mind, but he shut those memories down with a sort of grim pleasure. Molly had been saved from that bastard’s machinations, and that was all that mattered.

Molly moaned out his name and Sherlock's attention was immediately back in the moment. “Where did you learn to do that?” she gasped out, raising her head a bit and staring at him through wide (but satisfied) eyes.

He smirked up at her before moving back up to lie next to her. “They say travel is broadening,” he replied, knowing he sounded evasive, but also knowing he wasn't about to explain himself. Not right now, anyway. “Haven't you found that to be the truth, Molly?” Then he kissed her, waiting to see if she would pull away in disgust at the thought of tasting herself on his lips before deepening the kiss.

She responded as he'd hoped she would, by clutching him closer and opening her mouth obediently at his tongue's urging. He tightened his hold on her hip, loving the way her body felt against his, her cunt well-lubricated by his tongue and her own feminine emissions. He rubbed his prick up against her centre, eager for more, to feel her around him, to see her face as he made love to her, but this was her first time and so the moment was hers to decide.

oOo

Molly could hardly believe how different it felt, having Sherlock put his fingers and mouth on her private parts and bring her to orgasm that way, than the few times she'd managed to bring herself off. And then he'd kissed her, letting her taste herself in a way she never could bring herself to try in the past, feeling too wicked for words, hot and embarrassed alone in her bed at night. Never when Mary was home, of course; she'd barely managed to touch herself even knowing she was alone in the flat.

No, this was completely different, so much better; she hoped she wouldn't have to ever go back to touching herself; hoped that this meant something, that she and Sherlock had a future of some kind together, but managed to keep herself from blurting out those hopes to him. Instead she blurted out something equally dangerous, asking him where he'd learned to do such a thing, as if she didn't already know. There must have been another girl, possibly an experienced woman, who'd been with Sherlock after he was forced to leave Dublin and before he'd come to her here in London. 

She didn't want to think about that, about Sherlock being with someone else, even though, practically speaking, it was just as well that one of them knew what they were doing. Speaking of doing things, Sherlock had moved up and was rubbing his lovely prick along her most sensitive area, the unspoken question clear in his eyes and movements...along with an unexpected patience. Clearly he was waiting for her to do something – give permission, nod, something to tell him it was all right to go on, to take the next step.

The one that would change things irrevocably for her. She'd grown up being lectured that a girl's virtue was her most priceless belonging, and here she was, ready to give it away to the first boy she'd ever loved...but did he love her? What if this was all he wanted from her, what if she was just unfinished business to him, what if...

“Molly, you do know you're thinking too loudly, don't you?” His deep baritone cut into her increasingly panicky thoughts, bringing her out of her own head and back into the moment. She bit her lip and gazed into his eyes, noting the amber flecks that surrounded his pupils and wondering once again how one pair of eyes could hold so many different colours. “If you're worried about me leaving you, erm, after, then please don't. I have no intention of leaving you ever again – unless that's what _you_ want,” he added, that appealing vulnerability making another rare appearance.

She answered not with words, but actions: shaking her head, she smiled and reached over to the nightstand, picking up the foil-wrapped condom and placing it gently into his hand.

She watched as he tore it open and reached down to roll the rubber onto himself, noting the way he did it for future reference – knowing that she wanted to be the one to do it for him at least once. After he finished he settled her on her back, leaning on one elbow as he carefully nudged her legs further apart.

Molly braced her hands on his shoulders, giving a tiny nod at his questioning look as he positioned himself between her thighs. She felt the tip of his prick sliding between her folds and consciously relaxed muscles that had tensed in anticipation of the pain to come. Surely it wouldn't be that bad, even if she did feel about the size of the mouse she'd once compared herself to – and he, conversely, seemed a veritable giant now that they were physically touching at their most intimate parts...

He moved, the head of his prick inside her now, stopping when he reached her barrier, and she hissed in a breath at the sensation – not pain, not at all, just a giddy sense of _rightness_ about feeling him inside her even in this limited fashion. She wanted more, wanted the hard part to be over with – well, she thought with an internal giggle, the _difficult_ part. The hard part she wanted inside her as deep as it could go.

She could feel his hesitation as he slid back out again, saw the question in his eyes as she looked up at him, his face hovering above hers, once again waiting for her to make the next move, when all she wanted at this point was for him to feckin' get _on_ with it...

“I'm not made o’ glass, Sherlock,” she gasped out as she arched her back and squirmed a bit beneath him. She raised her knees and planted her feet against the mattress, hearing him suck in a breath at the change of angle between their joined bodies. “Please, for God's sake, stop makin' me wait for ya! Haven't I waited long enough, ya daft man? It's all right, just...please. I'm ready.”

Oh, her mam would slap her if she heard her talkin' so bold, but she couldn't care less what anyone else might think of her at this moment – no one but the man between her legs, who finally took her at her word and started pushin’ his body against hers the way she wanted him to.

Yes, it hurt, burned a bit when he finally managed to thrust his way fully inside her. But he stopped moving as soon as her fingers dug into his shoulders and she stiffened beneath him. She screwed her eyes shut, trying to ride out the discomfort, opening them after a moment and nodding, letting him know it was okay to go on...and he did.

Oh Lord, did he. Molly knew that a woman's first time didn't always bring pleasure after the pain, but it would appear she was one of the lucky ones. Or else it was just the pure joy she felt at having Sherlock with her, on top of her and inside her, his body moving against hers with an easy rhythm that felt like the most natural thing in the world. When she hesitantly raised one leg and wrapped it around his waist, she was rewarded by a sudden increase in his speed, the change in angle doing something quite delicious to her insides, shortening her breathing into panted gasps, Sherlock's breaths sounding just as frantic, his eyes wild as he leaned down to capture her lips in a passionate kiss. Then one of his hands tugged at her hair, and she felt as if her insides had simultaneously melted and exploded, the orgasm she'd been hoping for but not expecting – to borrow Sherlock's earlier words – rippling through her, washing away her thoughts on a wave of purest pleasure.

She became dimly aware that Sherlock was murmuring her name, holding her auburn tresses firmly wrapped around his fist. His other hand was on her shoulder, his eyes were clenched shut, and the thrusting of his hips became faster, a bit harder, and certainly more erratic seconds before he gave out a guttural moan and arched his head back, eyes tightly shut and mouth half-open as his own orgasm shuddered through his body.

The sensation was odd; she could feel him pulsing inside her, and wondered what it would be like to make love to him without the artificial barrier of the rubber coming between them. Then she scolded herself for thinking such dangerous thoughts – did she really want to be saddled with a baby before she was ready, when she was still at University, and unmarried to boot?

Then Sherlock opened his eyes and gazed down at her, with such a tender, loving expression on his face that her heart felt as if it would burst. At that moment, if he'd asked her, she'd have said yes to a dozen babies, no matter how unprepared for motherhood she might be.

Fortunately he was unable to read her thoughts, or they would surely have scared him off. As it was, he must have seen something in her expression, because his own became a bit guarded, a bit wary, as he asked: “Are you all right?”

She nodded and smiled as he released his tight hold on her hair, reaching up to stroke his sweaty curls off his forehead. “More than all right,” she said as her heart began slowing back to normal. “I'm bloody perfect – and so are you.”

Sherlock eased himself off her body, wincing a bit as he pulled out of her and sat on the edge of the bed in order to dispose of the rubber in the small bin she kept in her room. “Well, bloody is the right word...are you sure you're all right? Is it supposed to bleed that much? Does it hurt?”

She lifted herself up so that she was resting on her elbows as she peered down at her private parts in order to assess the damage, as it were. “It's sore, yeah, but nothin' I didn't expect,” she said. Her eyes widened as she took in the mess on the sheets – why didn't she think to put down a towel or something? – and she shook her head in disbelief. “Hell, that's goin' to be a lot o' work to clean!”

“I understand vinegar is the preferred method,” Sherlock replied, then paused and narrowed his eyes as he took in her expression, which surely read as affectionate disbelief. “You already know that, how...oh!” He turned away, either embarrassed by the subject he'd inadvertently introduced, or by not realising the answer right away. “Of course, stupid, sorry,” he mumbled, fidgeting with the bedspread. 

Molly grinned and nudged him with her foot. “Don't worry, I'm not gonna tease ya for forgettin' what all lasses go through every month!”

He had nothing to say to that, although his ears seemed a bit pink as he helped her to switch out the sheets, putting fresh ones on the bed while she left the stained ones soaking in the tub for now. She cleaned herself up a bit, feeling sore but in a good way. Then she rejoined him in her narrow bed, snuggled up against him and just basking in the pleasure of the moment.

She nearly fell asleep in his arms, but reality reared its ugly head, prodding her into speaking as she rested her head on his chest. “Sherlock? Where are you staying? Do you have a place?”

He tightened his arms around her. “Yes. A flat in a building belonging to an old friend of the family, on Baker Street.”

“Oh! Mary's boyfriend – you remember my friend, Mary Morstan, right? – she's my flatmate. Her new boyfriend just took a flat on Baker Street.” Molly craned her head up to smile at him.

Sherlock nodded and grinned. “I know. 221B, landlady's name is Mrs. Hudson. He has the upstairs bedroom, I have the one on the main floor of the flat.”


	13. Conclusion

Sherlock counted; it took Molly exactly eight seconds to process what he'd just told her, and when she did, her eyes widened and she sat up, forgetting to clutch the sheets to her chest and thus treating him to the sight of her lovely breasts as she glared at him. “Mary told me John's flatmate moved in a week ago!” He nodded, knowing where this was going and letting her have her (well deserved) say. “So you've been back at least a week and never said a word until now? You know Mary's boyfriend well enough to move in with him? Sherlock, how could you...”

He silenced her by the simple expedient of pulling her down on top of himself and kissing her. She melted into his embrace for a moment, but clearly he'd gotten her Irish up, and after a bit she struggled out of his arms and sat back up, glare once again firmly in place. “Sherlock Holmes, why did you wait so long to come see me?”

“I had to make sure you weren't dating anyone. That you hadn't found yourself a new boyfriend,” was his blunt reply. Nothing but simple honesty would do right now, at this fragile stage of their renewed relationship. “I needed to see if you'd moved on, if your feelings had changed...”

“And it didn't occur to you to just ask me?” Anger had morphed into hurt, as she tugged the sheets up to cover herself, tucking her arms around her chest in a motion more defensive than modest. “You thought it better to go behind my back, to, to spy on me? Why?”

He sat up, recognizing that lounging beneath the covers was inappropriate for the direction this conversation had taken. Not an unexpected one, not entirely, but certainly one he'd hoped to put off a bit longer, knowing how Molly was likely to react. He rested one hand on her knee, pleased when she didn't immediately push it off in anger. Making certain to maintain eye contact, he said, “I wasn't spying on you, Molly. I was just confirming your availability. Your interest in seeing me again. When it became clear to me that you missed me as much as I missed you, I knew it was time.”

“And how exactly did you figure that?” she asked, not sounding entirely pacified by his explanation but less angry than she had been a moment ago. Good, progress being made, showing he hadn't entirely cocked this up.

“Simple observation,” he replied. “You carry the last postcard I sent you in your handbag; I saw it sticking out when you were running for the Tube the other day. It nearly went flying, and even though you were late, you still stopped to grab it, to put it deeper inside and to make sure the snap was secured before you rushed off again. And,” he added quietly, “you kissed it before putting it back.”

She blushed, no doubt at being caught in such a sentimental act, and he felt ridiculously pleased at having elicited such a reaction from her. “Maybe I just have a fondness for the Alps,” she murmured, and he laughed aloud before pulling her down on top of him.

“Molly, we both know it isn't Switzerland you have a fondness for,” he chided her, then pulled her close for a deep kiss. “Just as we both know you didn't keep the postcard because the picture was pretty. You missed me. John told me you weren't seeing anyone – and no, I didn't put him through some kind of interrogation, and no, Mary has no idea I'm his flatmate. I asked him not to tell her after I explained why I was so interested in his girlfriend's best mate, is all. Just asked him to keep quiet, not tell Mary my name, until today. To give me time to see you.”

“And did you know you'd find me sitting on the fire escape?” Molly sounded slightly exasperated, but there was a dimple lurking in the corner of her cheek near her mouth, signalling the imminent eruption of a smile.

“Actually I just planned to park the motorbike there, where it would be out of the way,” he admitted with a grin. “Seeing you sitting there...that was just...serendipity, I suppose would be the best word.”

“In other words, luck,” Molly shot back, but the grin her dimples had foretold had emerged, and she'd laid her hand over his. Another good sign.

He faked up a scowl for her. “I don't believe in luck, you know that, Molly. But coincidences happen all the time, and there's nothing wrong with having a word specifically meant for good ones.”

Then he whispered in her ear, “However, I believe my word for a happy coincidence will always be...Molly.”

**Epilogue – London 1959**

It was a quiet wedding. Catholic, of course; although Sherlock had been raised C of E he had no true belief in any form of higher being, and thus it made absolutely no difference to him where he and Molly were married, as long as they were, indeed, married.

The only attendees were their witnesses, John and Mary – who had exchanged vows themselves six months earlier in a secular ceremony just as intimate as Sherlock and Molly’s church wedding. The four of them stood together at the altar, the two women holding small bouquets of flowers and wearing their nicest dresses, John and Sherlock in rented suits, as the priest read out the vows. Molly and Sherlock repeated the words back to him when the time came – Sherlock firmly, Molly with a bit of a quaver to her voice as she fought down tears of happiness.

Molly's family had been invited, but her mother had declined, claiming it was too long of a journey for her, that she couldn't leave her job, that it would be too difficult for her to gather up Molly's sisters and brothers from their new home...one excuse after another until Molly finally stopped asking.

Sherlock’s family had been invited as well, but since they thought of Molly as nothing but a costly mistake their son had made, no one was surprised when the politely worded note declining the invitation was received. Molly was mortified when she realised they’d included a cheque for an astonishing amount of money, and secretly relieved when Sherlock glanced at it and tore both it and the note into pieces without commenting. He’d graduated with a chemistry degree and forged a career for himself as a consulting detective with Scotland Yard, and he and Molly, although hardly rolling in cash, were well able to support themselves. Especially since Mrs. Hudson, their landlady, had a great deal of fondness for her four young tenants, and had even remodeled the basement flat for John and Mary to move into after their marriage.

When the brief ceremony came to its end and Sherlock was invited to kiss his bride, he did so with a tenderness that brought tears to Mary’s eyes – and if anyone had been looking closely, John’s were suspiciously bright as well. The bride and groom then bid their friends farewell, and headed back to Baker Street to change into clothes more suitable for the long ride on Sherlock’s (not stolen this time) motorbike as they headed off for their two-day stay in the country.

That’s not the end of their story, of course, but it’s the end of this one. Thank you all for joining them on this part of their journey.


End file.
